Vārdi: Cowboy Junkies. 200 More Miles. Oregon Hill.

Michael Timmins


The hoods are up on Pine street, rear ends lifted too.
The Great grandsons of General Robert E Lee
are making love with a little help from STP.
Their women on the porches comparing alibis.

Greasy eggs and bacon,
bumper stickers aimed to start a fight,
full gun racks, Confederate caps,
if you want some 'shine well you can always find some more,
but what I remember most is the colour of Suzy's door.

And Suzy says she's up there, cutting carrots still.
And Suzy says she's missing me,
so I'm missing Oregon Hill.

A river to the South to wash away all sins.
A college to the East of us to learn where sin begins.
A graveyard to the West of it all which I may soon be lying in.

Cause to the North there is a prison
which I've come to call my home,
but come Monday morning no country song
will sing me home again.

And Suzy says she's up there cutting carrots still.
And Suzy says she's missing me
so I'm missing Oregon Hill.

Sunday morning eight A.M., sirens fill the air.
Sounds like someone made the river.
Sounds like someone being born again.
Me, I'm just lying here in Suzy's bed.

Baptists celebrating with praises to the Lord,
rednecks doin' it with gin.
Me and Suzy, we're celebrating the joy of sleeping in,
because tomorrow I'll be home again.

But Suzy says she'll wait there
cutting carrots by the window sill.
And Suzy says, always think of me
when you think of Oregon Hill.