| And everybody knows, knows, knows
|
| The highway comes so high
|
| Past the skeleton crows, crows, crows
|
| Pecking at the scenic eyes
|
| And if you try and never look down
|
| You pass the spot connecting the gods
|
| And if you try and never look back
|
| You pass the vine of goshen’s pack — me
|
| And the skeleton rose
|
| They all backs of knives
|
| Watching those luminous rows
|
| Tying knots in the sky
|
| And we were singing…
|
| Highways of gold, where do they go?
|
| Soft dripping rows, I filled 'em down with gold
|
| And everybody knows, knows, knows
|
| That Bobby’s gonna die
|
| The way that skeleton rose, rose, rose
|
| Is always getting him high
|
| And if you go, wasting on the sun
|
| With your smile and his back room bars
|
| Waving goodbye
|
| Your ass on the ground, screaming goodbye with fluorescent charm
|
| And everybody knows, knows, knows
|
| The highway comes so high-igh-igh
|
| Past the skeleton crows, crows, crows
|
| On those towers of dime
|
| And we were singing…
|
| Ahh, ahh, ahh
|
| Highways of gold, where do they go?
|
| Soft dripping rows, I filled 'em down with gold
|
| Highways of gold, where do they go?
|
| Soft dripping rows, I filled 'em down with gold
|
| Highways of gold, where do they go?
|
| Soft dripping rows, I filled 'em down with gold |