The ghosts
Of forgotten coattails, abandoned cigarette butts
Misplaced change and discarded candy wrappers
Of the tiny cakes of pasture stuck onto the boots of
Vagabonds, truck drivers and lambs of the awakening generation

The ghosts — they speak to us
In hushed melodies, they send us
Messages of love unrequited, mysterious unresolved
Abundant is the wisdom in these tales of old
And yet disregarded they lie in the wastes
As the listeners refuse to listen, preach without knowledge
Such are the crimes of the future

A tattered leather-bound book with yellow pages
Ye of paper, in a land of electronic faces,
We brave few cherish with reckless abandon;
"Sleep, perchance to dream"
Perchance to remember, to never let go
What has come before
What the ghosts are left with
What we are destined to be

Ghosts — the road of ghosts.

The ghosts Of forgotten coattails, abandoned cigarette butts Misplaced change and discarded candy wrappers Of the tiny cakes of pasture stuck onto the boots of Vagabonds, truck drivers and lambs of the awakening generation The ghosts — they speak to us In hushed melodies, they send us Messages of love unrequited, mysterious unresolved Abundant is the wisdom in these tales of old And yet disregarded they lie in the wastes As the listeners refuse to listen, preach without knowledge Such are the crimes of the future A tattered leather-bound book with yellow pages Ye of paper, in a land of electronic faces, We brave few cherish with reckless abandon; "Sleep, perchance to dream" Perchance to remember, to never let go What has come before What the ghosts are left with What we are destined to be Ghosts — the road of ghosts.