I got two dollars and fifty-one cents
eighteen matches, a lighter, two pens
and a beat up copy of Cannery Row
five hundred miles left to go
everywhere I go I'm looking down
watching my old tennis shoes as they're wearing out
walking off these homesick blues
I may be drunk and lost but I'm not confused and
I know where this train is slowly going
north through K-Falls then on to Portland
I know I'm fucked up, it's stupid hoping
you'll answer phone calls, goodbye to Oakland