Wolves (Song Of The Shepherd's Dog)
Wolves by the roadand a bike wheel spinning on a pawn shop wallShe’ll wring out her colored hairlike a butterfly beaten in a summer rainfallAnd then roll on the kitchen floorof some fucker with a pocketful of foreign changeThe song of the shepherd’s dog,a ditch in the dark in the ear of the lambWho’s going to try to run awayWhoever got that brave
Wolves in the middle of townand a chapel bell ringing through the wind-blown treesShe’ll wave to the butcher’s boywith the parking lot music everybody believesAnd then dive like a dying birdat any dude with a dollar at the penny arcadeThe song of the shepherd’s dog,the waiter and the check or the rooster on a rooftopwaiting for dayAnd you know what he’s going to say
Wolves at the end of the bedand a postcard hidden in her winter clothesShe’ll weep in the back of a truckto the traitors only trying to find her bullet holeAnd then run down a canopy roadto some mother and a baby with a cross to bearThe song of the shepherd’s dog,a little brown flea in the bottle of oilfor your wool, wild hairYou'll never get him out of there