The morning breeze is off and gone

The winding factory streets are clean

Old ladies put the kettle on

And all-night lechers pause and lean

On grey shop windows, everywhere

A deeper hum is in the air

Hotel room, drifter leaves no clues



He rides a freight-train out of town

And whistles at the icy rime

The cattle float like thistle-downs

And God is on the edge of time

Somewhere behind a siren wails

The freight-train soars above the rails

The traveller, he's hard as nails

As the train sweeps down the line



The salmon Season's here to stay

And etched into each shoulder-bone

The mark of Cain is on display

As stone above each measured stone

Old Dresden burns above the breeze

The traveller, he's on his knees

He's watching sledge-wings dip and play

So far above the holy throne



Dresden blues . . .