Brown plastic shell in the red clay mud
Warm as a seed or a dormant bud
Sunk in the grit of a parking lot
Waiting for roots in a lonely spot
Magnetic tape in a plastic skin
Let the old southern rhythm begin
Spinning in circles of rusted gold
A story of dirt that refuses to fold
The drive-in screen is a bleached white bone
A wild weed garden where wind is blown
Sorghum grows tall through the concrete crack
Holding the ghost of a one-way track
Magnetic tape in a plastic skin
Let the old southern rhythm begin
Spinning in circles of rusted gold
A story of dirt that refuses to fold
Oxalis blooms by the ticket booth
Green as the lie and sharp as the truth
The tape is warped like a willow tree
Bending its spine just to set it free
Rub the brown oxide back into the vein
Wash off the salt and the summer rain
Deep in the loam where the slow things grow
Watch how the heavy red rivers flow
Copper wires tangle like ivy vines
Crossing the border of boundary lines
The reel is heavy with a low-end hum
Beating a rhythm like a steady drum
Magnetic tape in a plastic skin
Let the old southern rhythm begin
Spinning in circles of rusted gold
A story of dirt that refuses to fold
Latin names carved in the rotting pine
A wilder world in a crooked line
The cassette sleeps in a bed of shale
Telling a gritty and road-worn tale
Magnetic tape in a plastic skin
Let the old southern rhythm begin
Spinning in circles of rusted gold
A story of dirt that refuses to fold
Sunk in the clay.
Just let it spin.
(Heavy stomp)
