| You’re clean as a widow woman’s washboard, son,
|
| stick it in the wind
|
| Put the mountains to your back
|
| the great plains on your grille
|
| time to take a little spin
|
| Boulder looks like the type of town
|
| that I could spend some time,
|
| but in Houston they got our name in lights
|
| You’re clean as a widow woman’s washboard, son,
|
| the slab is yours tonight
|
| Townes is in the back lounge
|
| with his hands in his pocket
|
| pulls out two dice and says, 'Let's get at it'
|
| Salina in the headlights, snake eyes on the floor,
|
| Al drops another twenty, Pete heads for the door,
|
| Springer’s feeling lucky, sits down for a spell,
|
| Oklahoma City and he’s lost his last bill
|
| Jeff is in a bind waiting on sister hicks
|
| seven comes a-calling
|
| as we cross on into Texas
|
| Townes is in the back lounge
|
| with a fist full of fives
|
| he says, 'It's a little bit long
|
| but I’m enjoying this ride'
|
| Be careful with the dice
|
| when you’re surrounded by others
|
| with boxcars in their eyes
|
| Never count your winnings at hour 23
|
| of a 24-hour drive
|
| Remember that you’re not the one
|
| calling the tune
|
| that’s making those diamonds dance
|
| or you’ll be clean as a widow woman’s washboard, son,
|
| and those are the facts
|
| Townes is in the back lounge cursing at them bones
|
| he says, 'Ain't this fool ever heard of Raton' |