Diesel engine coughs through amber trees
Parking lot cracks where the weeds break free
He kills the lights on the eighteen-wheel
Walks past the gate where the lock used to be
Midway in November the bulbs are dead
He walks the midway where the laughter fled
Tilt-A-Whirl rusted in the autumn chill
He's chasing a ghost that he never will
Faded paint peels on the wooden horse
Carousel frozen in rusted course
He runs his palm on the splintered pole
Remembers the spin from a long time ago
Midway in November the bulbs are dead
He walks the midway where the laughter fled
Tilt-A-Whirl rusted in the autumn chill
He's chasing a ghost that he never will
Cotton candy machine sits silent cold
Sugar dust thick as the morning's first mold
He picks a stick from the tangled wire
Tastes nothing but air and the bite of fire
Midway in November the bulbs are dead
He walks the midway where the laughter fled
Tilt-A-Whirl rusted in the autumn chill
He's chasing a ghost that he never will
Fog rolls in off the inlet water
Same as the bay where he watched his daughter
Light sweeps slow from the old stone tower
One flash every twenty seconds power
He knows the rhythm, he knows the sound
But here in the park no light is found
Funhouse mirrors reflect a gray sky
Distorted faces stare as he walks by
He sees his rig through the warped glass pane
A steel ghost waiting for morning rain
Midway in November the bulbs are dead
He walks the midway where the laughter fled
Tilt-A-Whirl rusted in the autumn chill
He's chasing a ghost that he never will
Midway in November fades behind
Midway in November, lost and found
