Old Hank parks his cab by the yard
Fog eats headlights hits the guard
He sees a shine on gravel gray
A brass key where the tracks lay
A brass key turns in nothing but air
No door waits waiting for it there
Fog rolls thick on rusted steel
This key fits nothing made of real
He pockets it with calloused thumb
No lock fits where the night trains come
No station house no shed no door
Just rust and rain on iron floor
A brass key turns in nothing but air
No door waits waiting for it there
Fog rolls thick on rusted steel
This key fits nothing made of real
Hank says son a key means trust
But this one's born of grit and dust
No welcome waits on other side
Just empty rails stretching wide
A brass key turns in nothing but air
No door waits waiting for it there
Fog rolls thick on rusted steel
This key fits nothing made of real
Fog lifts slow on morning shift
No locksmith comes no magic gift
Just brass and air and Hank's old creed
Some keys unlock a different need
Dawn breaks thin on switching rails
Hank leaves the key on rusted rails
Let the next hand take its turn
Some doors don't open some don't burn
A brass key turns in nothing but air
No door waits waiting for it there
Fog rolls thick on rusted steel
This key fits nothing made of real
Engine idles meter off
Hank drives on through morning cough
