Wolves by the road
and a bike wheel spinning on a pawn shop wall
She’ll wring out her colored hair
like a butterfly beaten in a summer rainfall
And then roll on the kitchen floor
of some fucker with a pocketful of foreign change
The song of the shepherd’s dog,
a ditch in the dark in the ear of the lamb
Who’s going to try to run away
Whoever got that brave

Wolves in the middle of town
and a chapel bell ringing through the wind-blown trees
She’ll wave to the butcher’s boy
with the parking lot music everybody believes
And then dive like a dying bird
at any dude with a dollar at the penny arcade
The song of the shepherd’s dog,
the waiter and the check or the rooster on a rooftop
waiting for day
And you know what he’s going to say

Wolves at the end of the bed
and a postcard hidden in her winter clothes
She’ll weep in the back of a truck
to the traitors only trying to find her bullet hole
And then run down a canopy road
to some mother and a baby with a cross to bear
The song of the shepherd’s dog,
a little brown flea in the bottle of oil
for your wool, wild hair
You'll never get him out of there