my friends please dodge the vcr tracking cliffs    praying through a telephone    mouths drying up into salt water lips and the waters running low    this fire i'm feeding's a drunken hope and you know that we sold your soul to the west coast   kept the search plane overhead to gauge your scoreboard stride   but teh search plane has no megaphone   and all the blue screens cripple your eyes   you know it's not now when the searchlights capture the mountains and i follow the mountaintops   kill the vcr tracking ruts    the frost melts all the tumbleweeds to the city   virginia don't drown   a dry spell is coming