From The Recordings Html
Parking Lot Ponies
In a salmon pink Olds eighty-eight, I rode shotgun and Mom didn't hesitate,
to drive me out to what I thought was the golden west.
Just a parking lot at a California strip mall, but I felt ten feet tall,
as they hoisted me up on the back of that parkin' lot pony.
My pinto stepped so sad and slow, but I was just too young to know,
I was riding a spirit chained and bound and broken.
I felt free and I felt wild, but the Marlboro man inside the child,
holds a snapshot of the wild west now and thinks "Man how phony!"
And sometimes I feel just like that pony as 'round and 'round I go.
I never seem to get no where.
And if I had the money, I'd buy that pony, Then I'd take him with me
And I'd saddle that refugee!
And I'd ride him out through these asphalt plains,
and my grid locked mind and the acid rains,
to the place where we all lived before we took that ride.
Where there's pastures of plenty and shady grove,
Where the wild run free and the herds ain't drove,
into corrals and turned into parking lot ponies.
I felt so happy up on that pony, when they took my picture then.
It was such a clear blue day.
But it aged and yellowed and tinted the sky, and now it seems like I
see through the ponies eyes.
Well I hope that he got pastured out,
while he still had the strength to know what he's about,
yeah I hope he got to spend some time just runnin' free.
And when those alarm clocks ring and the news comes on,
and we face our jobs again at dawn,
pray for the same, for all of us parkin' lot ponies.