Out past the trees there is nothing to burn

Just an empty gas station, left to me in a will

Just a plate of bad habits and plenty of salt for the wounds

Just a plate of bone china and plenty of salt for the wounds

At night there are voices

By the old station house

They come from an angel with a kerosene tongue

She say's: "there is trouble, a trouble that no one can name"

She say's: "help is too late when the memory doesn't remain"



Blown down the wind

Let the trouble begin

Get blown away

Never look back again



Down on the troubled wind

Down on the troubled wind



You can come on the nightbus and spend a few days

You can set some explosions and fall asleep in this bed

But I know that you won't stay with hundreds of miles to go

Trouble has no friends when trouble needs some place to go



Blown down the wind

Let the trouble begin