"Hey, son. How've ya been?
I hear Los Angeles can turn boys to men."
"Yeah, well hey, Pop. You know, it's not quite like that.
It's more like they turn dreams into cold hard facts.
And I feel like comin' home.
I feel all alone."
Somewhere in Nebraska, a ghost of the Boss's harp still blows.
Somewhere on I-80, an eighteen-wheeler rolls,
And there's a little boy riding shotgun. His Papa's listening to Hoyt Axton,
And they're trying to find the alphabet in the license plates as they pa** 'em.
I miss you. Sorry I never tell you.
But a man has an ego that won't let him say what he needs to,
Like, "I feel like comin' home.
I feel all alone."
"Hey son, how you been?
I hear Los Angeles can turn boys to men."