Stepping up from the ghostly scene   by the manhole smoke machines   waiting for the coast to clear.      Playin' a tune with a tiny tone   on her ribcage xylophone   in a key that no one else can hear.      Sandie, what's that face about?   You've got so many rounds   yet to go,   and so many more nails to bend   before you reach the end   of the road.      Staring out through the window pane   at the pellets of pregnant rain   tapping out a drumroll down below.      Filling up all the cracks and dents   and high-fives in the hot cement   from the hands   you'll never get to know.      Oh Sandie, what's that face about?   You've got so many rounds   yet to go,   and so many more nails to bend   before you reach the end   of the road.      On a crystal night,   up on the canyon's side   I saw the western sky   turn to red.      But it couldn't touch the flames   burning up your brains   that I saw through the frames   in your head.      Sandie, what's that face about?   You've got so many rounds   yet to go,   and so many more nails to bend   before you reach the end   of the road.