Copyright 2001 by Grant Carrington

It's four o'clock in the morning
. . . . . . . . F . . . . . . . . . . . Dm
And your fingers are getting numb.
You're travelling across the country
. . . . . . . . F . . . . . . . . . A7
And your ticket is your thumb.

You left her back in Manhattan
And you've made it to Saint Loo.
Now you're standing out on the highway
And the temperature's thirty-two.

D . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Am
Your last ride left you at ten o'clock.
. . . . . . . . C . . . . . . . . . . . . . D
You been here most all of the night.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Am
No one stops to pick you up.
C . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . E
You wish it would soon get light.

Your first ride was with a trucker,
Doing ninety miles or more.
There were forty tons riding behind you
And he had his foot to the floor.

Then you got picked up by an Indian
Who owned his own oil well.
He drove just like that trucker.
They were both on the road to Hell.

Then a trooper in Ohio
Said "Start walking for the State Line.
It's just down the road, boy."
Forty miles said the sign. A car pulls up on the gravel.
It looks like you got a ride.
It's a shiny silver sports car
And it sure feels good inside.

You look over at the driver.
He must have a lot of dough
To own a car like this one,
But I tell you it just ain't so.

I'm in hock up to my ears.
I had to get away.
I never should have settled down.
I'm headed for Frisco Bay. And you wonder I why I picked you up.
You'd think I would take more care.
With a car like this, I could get robbed
And thrown in a ditch somewhere.

But that don't bother me at all
And here's what I say to you:
I've travelled that road ten years myself.
So I know what you're going through.

So you dip into your knapsack,
Into your special stash,
And you drag out a joint or two
And say, Shall we blow some grass? So we're smoking as we drive along,
Just swapping tales and lies
About our days on the highway,
Just waiting for the sun to rise.

About the women that we've known,
About the ups, about the downs.
And before we know where the time has gone,
We're halfway to Frisco Town.

Feel free to perform this song in public, as long as you mention who wrote it. (A mention of the CD, Songs Without Wisdom, and the fact that it can purchased from would be appreciated too.) If you want to record it, however, you will have to cross my palm with silver. My brother-in-law comes from Sicily.