Spin Doctors — Bags of Dirt

The more things change, the more they stay the same And the more it rains, the less I know Why do these foreign skies change the way home? Why do these hotel walls hang their strangeness on my own? Oh mama, I'm gonna roll, with a truckload of hurt These wheels have rolled across I don't know how many bags of dirt Barefoot in the back of the van, tossing an arcing empty soda can Long ways, long days, waitresses frayed and underpaid we were harried and waylaid We arrived that evening and not a moment too soon Finding a place it was, you may say, cool These sketches of an infinite architecture are ink and unconfirmed conjecture A dream glimpse of the puppeteer's knuckle a fragment of a fraction of a gesture And when the ghost whispers, I'll set down all I hear A garbled, shorthand outline by a marionette in fear Oh mama, I'm gonna roll, with a truckload of hurt These wheels have rolled across I don't know how many bags of dirt