They're shutting down the motel now,
that his body was found.
Lying in blue waters,
on the shores of Terry Town.
His body rose,
in women's clothes,
and tangled on the dock.
In Sunday's best,
they'll lay to rest.
I quit my job at the armory,
and met you under the overpass.
The sirens on the highway,
high and silently it passed.
We laid between the evergreens,
I turned and heard you say,
"It's good to be young and free."
Everything that money brings,
it sure don't mean a damn,
while you lie beside me,
where this wild highway spans.
The unicorn defends himself,
from man and hound, alike.
But it don't win,
and soon it's skinned.
I stood outside your window,
I couldn't see within.
Your curtains faintly stirring,
like a restless little thing.
I lit a smoke as morning broke,
I knew it would be awhile,
before I'd find my peace of mind . . .