The screen door closed swiftly, the houses sleep in fields of white
in a picturebook scene, the cars parked perfect in the neighborhood secure
strong words have strangled, the cuts have mangled, the shows have come and gone
somewhere outside Las Vegas, twelve tribes hunker down to pass a sleepless night
We are waiting for the savior to ride into town in a Cadillac made of glass
poised and confused, hanging on the fuse of a million dark dreams
The women hover through the shops, smelling like the sea, behind velvet and tortoise shell
amidst the fat-free mochas, the cameras creep, the TVs burn their lights
outside of town around the hills, and down the winding interstate, under microscopes burning bright
the cooling streets stretch their arms, the people dance the tango of approaching night
We are sitting at the fountain of tongues, in the parking lots hoping the tickets will go on sale
and somewhere outside Las Vegas, it finally grows too much for a lone man to bear.