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lyrics

Roughly the shape of an animal’s skull,
A car with us inside,
Two-hundred miles of broken road
And nowhere left to hide.

A single lane of gravel,
A yellow strip of dust,
An endless ring of razor wire,
Poisoned with rust.

It has to be out there,
That town off the grid,
The bikers, the artists,
The liars, Madrid.

Beaten and battered and broken beneath
A blazing orang sky,
We’ll drive until we reach that town
We’ll drive until we die.

The day’s disappearing,
The sun’s setting low,
A lifetime behind us
And miles to go.

It has to be out there,
That town off the grid,
The bikers, the artists,
The liars, Madrid.

credits

from Slow Drive Through a Strange World, released March 8, 2020

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Plush Gordon Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Always shifting. Potato art. Kind of an underground fungus.

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