Wolves by the road and a bike wheel spinning on a pawnshop wall She’ll wring out her colored hair like a butterfly beaten in a summer rainfall
A ditch in the dark in the ear of the lamb who’s going to try to run away Whoever got that brave?
Wolves in the middle of town and a chapel bell ringing through the windblown trees
Wolves at the end of the bed and a postcard hidden in her winter clothes She’ll weep in the back of a truck to the traitors only trying to find her bullet hole and then run down a canopy road to some mother and a baby with a cross to bear
The song of the shepherd’s dog a little brown flea in the bottle of oil for your wooly wild hair, you’ll never get him out of there