Last one out is a cold duck. Padding down the road. Won't let it move me, but I can't sit still. Couldn't meet the eyes of a working girl undressed to kill. Rock Island Savage night on a misty island.
Lights wink out in the canyon walls.
Two old boys in a stolen racer. Black rubber contrails in the unwashed halls. And all roads out of here, seem to lead right back to the Rock Island. I've gone back to Paris, London, and even riding on a jumbo to Bombay. The long haul back holds faint attraction, but the people here know they're o.k.