the low highway

travelin' now, on the low highway, three thousand miles, to the frisco bay, cross the rivers wild, and the lonesome plains, up the coast and down, and back again, saw empty houses on a dead end street, people linin up for something to eat, and the ghost of america watching me, through the broken windows of the factories, pickin bones of a better day, as i roll on the down the low highway, travelin' now, on the low highway, by the yellow moon, and the light of day, from the snow white crown, of the mountain tall, to the valley down, where the shadows fall, met a man with a rifle in his hand, been away to battle in a distant land, taught him to hate taught him to kill, now he's out on the road with a hole to fill, nobody knows the price he paid, so he takes his toll on the low highway, travelin' now, on the low highway, windows down, listenin, wheels turnin round, on the asphalt sayin, every sound, is a prophecy, heard and old man grumble and a young girl cry, brick wall crumble and the white dove fly, and a cry for justice and a call for peace, force of reason in the roar of the beast, and every mile is a prayer i prayed, as i roll down, the low highway