The Waltz We Were Born For

    I never knew them all， just hummed

    and thrummed my fingers with the radio，

    driving five hundred miles to Austin.

    Her arms held all the songs I needed.

    Our boots kept time with fiddles¹

    and the charming sobs² of blondes，

    the whine³ of steel guitars

    sliding us down in deer-hide chairs

    when jukebox music was over.

    Sad music's on my mind tonight

    in a jet high over Dallas， earphones

    on channel five. A lonely singer，

    dead， comes back to beg me，

    swearing in my ears she's mine，

    rhymes set to music that make

    her lies seem true. She's gone

    and others like her， leaving their songs

    to haunt us. Letting down through clouds

    I know who I'll find waiting at the gate，

    the same woman faithful to my arms

    as she was those nights in Austin

    when the world seemed like a jukebox，

    our boots able to dance forever，

    our pockets full of coins.