Pan-american Blues
that fixed my arm. The federales back
from Tuscon, each one got an arm gone.
Limehouse Pratt got dim inside, can't see
the painted ladies runaround at night.
A wood-paneled room, my cigarette fumes
waltz and dissolve just for you.
There's gonna be a truce(x3) but
first you got to set your horses loose.
A jaguar simmering in a cage, give him
a chance, can you tell the answer from the
ants. History's got it's walking papers
can't get enough of the make-up
that makes it look so tough.
Well it ssssseems just like a freeze out
(x3). an undisclosed, deeply wooded
loose your way route.