September, 1969.
He found himself waiting again.
Out at the crossroads, out on the lam.
This time not running, this time by right.
A road-side hitcher waits for headlights.
"the blues,
The blues
The blues won't bring me down."
That pick-up truck stopped.
"where you headed, kid?"
"back to the boardwalk coast to fix the wrong I did."
That old man would bring him just as far as he could.
His hellhound sniffing out for a trace of any good.
The hope
The hope
The hope he's chasing.
The blues
The blues
The blues he carried are dead and buried.