Pray for the foothills, home to the drone of power lines and rock doves,
Mountains grey as velvet,
Field for dots of yucca, white and jacarandas,
Facing the sky as the day burns away, is a desert in mourning,
Sheltering the dead stones,
Cradle of the lost bones,
Home of eternal comings and goings.
Blinking away the sunrise,
Pissing into the wind,
Blow angels with dirty faces face another day in limbo,
Beckoning fire from Heaven,
Everything seems so stone-cold,
Beating the drums of change,
Another day in limbo.
Pray for the foothills, goatherds, and windmills, and satellite dishes,
Where petroglyph talkers meet iron-willed walkers who grant them no wishes,
Shaking a fist at the air seems to bring only blackening skies,
In the crackling of embers, old men remember walking in beauty in the dawn of their lives.
Blinking away the sunrise,
Pissing into the wind,
Blow angels with dirty faces face another day in limbo,
Beckoning fire from Heaven,
Everything seems so stone-cold,
Beating the drums of change,
Another day in limbo.
Yeah, pray for the foothills, where the iron horse with four wheels bucks a drunken rider,
For the pawns of the porn kings,
Corn-silk of heartstrings, tattered and blighted,
They sing in the sand for the son of the land, who sought fire in water,
And faith, like a kernel, rising up in thermals,
Hope springs eternal every once in awhile.
Blinking away the sunrise,
Pissing into the wind,
Blow angels with dirty faces face another day in limbo,
Beckoning fire from Heaven,
Everything seems so stone-cold,
Beating the drums of change,
Another day in limbo,
Blinking away the sunrise,
Pissing into the wind,
Blow angels with dirty faces face another day in limbo,
Beckoning fire from Heaven,
Everything seems so stone-cold,
Beating the drums of change,
Another day in limbo.
