ROUGH EDGES Fred J. Eaglesmith
Intro: G F C G
Cracks in your [G]windshield, holes in your [F]life,
And you're trying to get [C]home before it gets [D]light.
That old five-ton [G]truck don't run good no [Em]more,
Barely gets up those [C]hills with your foot to the [D]floor.
And your horses are [G]tired, your excuses are [Em]weak,
And you ain't won a [C]race since seventy-[D]three.
But all through the [G]night, that trailer just [F]sways.
An east wind, you [C]know, always brings [G]rain.
Out on the freeway, those big wheels just roll,
Out past your time, and through your front door.
Lights on the skyline, signs on the road,
You don't pick up your mail, you don't answer your phone.
And your old friends are dead, or they've all gone away,
Wildflowers cry over their graves.
And the paper they throw at the end of the lane,
An east wind, it says, always brings rain.
Down by the river, where the old boys still ride.
And the edges are rough as suicide.
Where the whisky's got colour, and the cows feed on grass,
The windmills pump water, and your cheques don't go bad.
And your blankets are dirty, your eternity frayed,
And on through the night, that trailer just sways.
So load up those cattle, move out that train,
An east wind, you know, always brings rain.
Intro: G F C G
Cracks in your [G]windshield, holes in your [F]life,
And you're trying to get [C]home before it gets [D]light.
That old five-ton [G]truck don't run good no [Em]more,
Barely gets up those [C]hills with your foot to the [D]floor.
And your horses are [G]tired, your excuses are [Em]weak,
And you ain't won a [C]race since seventy-[D]three.
But all through the [G]night, that trailer just [F]sways.
An east wind, you [C]know, always brings [G]rain.
Out on the freeway, those big wheels just roll,
Out past your time, and through your front door.
Lights on the skyline, signs on the road,
You don't pick up your mail, you don't answer your phone.
And your old friends are dead, or they've all gone away,
Wildflowers cry over their graves.
And the paper they throw at the end of the lane,
An east wind, it says, always brings rain.
Down by the river, where the old boys still ride.
And the edges are rough as suicide.
Where the whisky's got colour, and the cows feed on grass,
The windmills pump water, and your cheques don't go bad.
And your blankets are dirty, your eternity frayed,
And on through the night, that trailer just sways.
So load up those cattle, move out that train,
An east wind, you know, always brings rain.
