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Kevin Gordon
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Immigrant
Feel like a immigrant, baby, with the law on his heels
Ain't got no papers for the way I feel
The man hunts you down, the world bleeds you dry
Hangnail moon scraping 'cross a sheet-metal sky
Heart bouncing like a tin can inside my chest
Pocket watch hanging from a black leather vest
Hands stopped moving 30 years ago
I still know when it's time to go
You can declare yourself in a bus station stall
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Carve your name with a knife in the paint on the wall
Run the blade thru the guts of an old dog guitar
They're drinking up your blood in the butcher's bar
Monotone electric, the swarm of the traffic
Holy souls all out among the plastic
Jumping for the money, the fat and the chrome—
Jesus watched from the window of the old folks' home
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