The old truck lurches from gear to gear,
but it's alright.
There's a hairline crack in the mirror,
but it's alright.

You got off work an hour late again,
and Amber won't answer the phone,
and one of these nights, when the mood is right,
someone'll burn down the title loan.

Linda Ronstadt on the radio.
It's alright.
Sometimes she sings too rock 'n' roll,
but it's alright,

'cause there's an old backroad nobody else knows
and you can park out in the clear,
and smoke a few, and drink a few,
and try to forget whatever led you here

and see the red sun
the red sun
bleed out on the mountain.

They're all big guys with little necks,
but it's alright.
They're always talking like the president,
but it's alright.

They've got a camera hooked up to a computer in there
just as good as to say that they know
that one of these nights, maybe tonight,
someone'll burn down the title loan.

They place a lien on your soul,
but it's alright.
Give back your body like a ticket stub,
but it's alright.

It's a real dead-end, but it's as good as a friend:
scrub grass, yellow and cold;
and the engine may whine, but the radio's fine
and the choruses sing with the sad old world

and if this were your car,
and if it could make it that far,
you'd drive up from the mountain

clear into the red sun
the red sun
that's dying
on
the mountain.