Three rusty reivers in a flower-van
Search for their comrade, the ailing Circus Man
No sign of him since the wild times fell through
They swap their old tales now, none of them true
Up from the badlands to dusty rutted streets
Where thin boys drink codeine and their ragged mothers screech
They heard he was sick and his family starved
They mention his name in the blood-spattered bars
They get hostile remarks
But they cease to to enquire
When the van's set on fire
Mouldy pink motel, the city's empty half
Three pairs of old shoes tramp the mossy path
Their friend lies within with his bride aged fifty
She answers the door and relays what she's seen
He comes to them, stiff-necked, no smile upon his lips
Then lowers his brow and says, "What the hell is this?
These stretchy old faces, two drunks and their whore
Of welcome round here well the plague would find more."
Then he slams shut the door
And the radio plays, from a truck far away
"Rose Marie..."
Three rusty reivers, a woman and two men
Once shared the same bed, you know how, way back when
They go back to their homes on the groaning old bus
The sky's awful blue
That one night's not discussed
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