Miss Misfortune sails down the rails with her brow to the windowpane
The scenery that she sees in her soul
Doesn't match with the blur in her brain
Oh, she can trace the tricks of the
Tracks like the ribs of a rattlesnake
Till all her pastel chalk lines of
Fact are erased like a schoolgirl's slate
She is reading her own tattoos
Her diary is the evening news
She can't give a damn on cue
On a freight train to nowhere
Hey, if she were not scorching the rails with the haste of a bolting
Ghost there would be no reason to fear
The death rattle in the engine's throat
She could call for the mini-cams,
Or take up a gun, or be politically correct
But that kind of justice still preys on the
Ones with the stones hung around their necks
Oh, she's reading her own tattoos
Her diary is the evening news
And she can't give a damn on cue
On a freight train to nowhere
She's heard it said,
By the drone in her head, that the wages of spend is debt
She figures that's better than nothing
To show for the years of tears and sweat
If she could put her hand on the brake of the land,
Find the treason in the diesel and the smoke,
She would jar the teeth of the dull and the
Meek and feed them the truth until they choke
She is reading her own tattoos
Her diary is the evening news
She can't give a damn on cue
On a freight train to nowhere
She is reading her own tattoos
Her diary is the evening news
And she can't give a damn on cue
On a freight train to nowhere