Movement 1: FREEWHEELIN’

borrowed from a poet
and walking the same halls
he wrote the truth
the poet wept
and passed the torch along

you'll stop your booing
and even sing along
as long as our dear country
keeps it playing at number one

chasing paper won't make you strong
if money is the finish line
you're seeing it all wrong

every man knows
we're just memories
waiting to heal

keep yourself close
don't get lost
in the lies of a mirror

hungry making melodies
to feed defiant songs
a bag of coins will weigh you down
until you starve and fall

so stop your booing
and even sing along
as long as our dear country
keeps it playing at number one

breathe in just the meaning
the media will call
and fill your lungs with poison
the smoke with fatal claws

chasing paper won't make you strong
if money is the finish line
you're seeing it all wrong

don't get lost
in the lies of a mirror

breathe with your fears

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Movement 2: VISIONS

Time grabbed your arm
and it spoke
whispered it's time to let go

the devil wears a costume
he wear a suit and tie
and he's standing out in the cold

and God is up there laughing
to himself again
knowing that he's cursed us to grow old

and silently she dozed off
her cigarette in hand
still the crumbling of those walls
gave us hope

and the faces we all know
the defining canvas
are washed away by those flames

he found a certain rhythm
in the street life down below
from the bowery's finest
to poverty's well known

what makes you think
that at the end of the day
you absolutely, absolutely have to go home

now that we know
to laugh at what we do not know
we're all guilty of closed eyes
as we grow old

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Movement 3: AFTER THE FALL

For just a moment there i saw it
my whole life written down in proofs
still that vision sometimes hangs there
but now it's bleached out by the moon

don't be scared to let in darkness
darkness balances the light
and the sky as we know it
would never get to shine

oh Lord, why is it betrayal
is the only truth that sticks
in that room that measures greatness
it was the holy ghost he kissed

i open up my eyes each morning'
to see the world and show me proof
that my heart is still a beatin
but now the fire back homes died too

I'm looking for a simple constant
that never is and never was
you cut the strings between my fingers
that was leading me to heaven's throne

for just a moment there i knew it
sitting on an empty bench
and I finally found meaning
as it held so many men

and the day you stop becoming
and you live just as you are
well you might as well throw shadows
on the face of God

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Movement 4: CHELSEA MORNING

butterscotch or honey
the sun rose either way
but even Chelsea wonder
couldn't make love stay

the sweetest bitter ending
was bound to show it's face
a spotlight on their weakness
they were too much the same

could two perfect souls
really make this wrong
shards of colored glass
made rainbows on the wall

a painter and a boudoir poet
couldn't seem to get along
it was a different kind of chorus
to that same gypsy song

summer at the Hotel Chelsea
was all that they had

a love entwined in poems
escaped so fast

it was a different kind of chorus
to that same gypsy song
a painter and a boudoir poet
couldn't seem to get along

it was a different kind of chorus
to that same old gypsy song
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Movement 5: ON THE ROAD

tired and beaten down
or alive and full of bliss
the beat is truly just a matter of perspective

got up and dressed up
then went out and got laid
then died and got myself
buried in a coffin in a grave

do we have to hit the road
searching for some hope
are those the only four letter words
that will guide us home

and those New York City blues
where millions travel through
they'll give away their blood and tears
just to make a buck or two
so we might as well drink away the night and pass on through

never their intent
they're just writing what they know
but it's always heralding a change
in the dreams we should sow
and that 12 foot page confession
we buy because we're told

I like my whiskey wild
and my Benzedrine on time
it's the jazz that will fill my veins
like bullets typing on a page
but i left those innocent eyes
once i wrote my soul

after 7 long years i was a searching
3 weeks i told

let's call it anywhere
it's for anybody anyhow
and God is up there laughing
at the poets once again

because the radio needs us just like we need them
so we might as well give it all away
and head on west

we'll go, 'til we find home.