I am going on my way to see what's left of Cheyenne, I've known the name all my life, ain't put a face to it yet, And there's just too many things I ain't seen so I am, Driving north to find it, And every couple miles the reception dies out, And there's a buzzing in my mind, a little looming cloud, Like I'm waiting on a call that I'm gonna miss somehow, Ain't that some sweet irony, I was hoping to feel something undeniable, I was sold a bill of goods by documentaries and books, 'Cause it's just another town on its way back down, To being wholly unremarkable, There's a dead famous writer buried in some southern state, He won the Pulitzer Prize, now he's a weekend trip away, And I figured I'd sit calmly in the grass beside his grave, But it was dirt and empty bottles, I was hoping to feel something undeniable, I was sold a bill of goods by documentaries and books, And it strikes me that he would be shaken by this scene, So doesn't that make me the problem, I am going on my way to see what's left of Cheyenne, I've known the name all my life, ain't put a face to it yet, And there's just too many things I ain't seen so I am, Driving north to find it