Black paint peels off the big white screen.
Coldest wind that I have ever seen.
Rusty gears in my belly grind.
Leaving all the movie stars behind.
The popcorn bags blow down the street.
The gravel road feels the winter heat.
Turn the silver horn and let it spin.
Wait for the midnight crowd to come back in.
Play a heavy tune for the empty row.
Watch the summer grass and the clover grow.
Chrome bumpers rust in the tall green weed.
A broken engine with no more speed.
I hold a record from a distant town.
While the heavy velvet curtains fall down.
The popcorn bags blow down the street.
The gravel road feels the winter heat.
Turn the silver horn and let it spin.
Wait for the midnight crowd to come back in.
Play a heavy tune for the empty row.
Watch the summer grass and the clover grow.
Coffee stains on a ticket stub.
A lonely rhythm like a rubbing hub.
The projector lamp is a dead gray eye.
Underneath a wide and a purple sky.
Turn the silver horn and let it spin.
Wait for the midnight crowd to come back in.
Play a heavy tune for the empty row.
Watch the summer grass and the clover grow.
Old men talk in the diner booth.
Trading lies for a bitter truth.
They don't remember where the music went.
Every single nickel and dime was spent.
Turn the silver horn and let it spin.
Wait for the midnight crowd to come back in.
Play a heavy tune for the empty row.
Watch the summer grass and the clover grow.
Just a silver horn in the wind.
Let the record spin.
Let it spin.
