You lean against a brick wall gray
Where all the yellow pages stay
The rubber tires are flat and thin
Where all the heavy books begin
Ride through the ink and the rust
Turning the gold into dust
Spinning the wheels on the floor
Open the old basement door
The copper bell is muted now
A rusted crown upon your brow
You drift past maps of ancient seas
Among the leather bound decrees
The air is thick with heavy glue
A shade of faded ocean blue
You glide across the concrete cold
Where all the hidden tales unfold
Ride through the ink and the rust
Turning the gold into dust
Spinning the wheels on the floor
Open the old basement door
No wind to push the heavy sail
No crashing waves or winter gale
Just paper stacks and quiet air
A lonely ghost with silver hair
The oil is dry upon the chain
A steady hum like summer rain
You find the spot where light descends
And that is where the journey ends
Ride through the ink and the rust
Turning the gold into dust
Spinning the wheels on the floor
Open the old basement door
Open the door.
Just roll on home.
