Cleveland

Cleveland

We left Kansas City late. Walked the streets almost half the night.
You said the Country Club Plaza lights made it feel like Christmas.

Stopped beside the St. Louis arch—that big old blade laid cross the clear blue sky.
We were tired, and we had to rest, until the car got too cold.

Now we’re driving down the interstate,
I’ve got one hand on the wheel,
and you’re saying, “I you don't know how much longer I can take it.”
And a sign says roadwork the next ten miles
when we’re already going nowhere fast.
If we don’t make it to Cleveland now we might never make it.

It was a trip that we had to do. I told your mother three years ago,
we’d come as soon as we had the dough and have a family Christmas.

Take the boys down to NELA Park, then we’d stop in the shops of the Arcade.
We could all be together then, before we all got too old.

So now we’re driving down the interstate,
it’s your turn behind the wheel
and I’m saying, “I don’t know how much longer I can take this.”
Seems like every sign says road work the next ten miles
when we’re already going nowhere fast.
If we don’t make it to Cleveland now we might never make it

Instrumental

You lie down, and I’ll drive a while. You got us past Indianapolis.
I’m wide awake and we have the gas to drive straight through into morning.

I’ll keep my eyes on the truck ahead, keep the radio playing the old love songs.
I’ll wake you up when Columbus comes, you can drive the last leg to home.

So, now we’re gliding down the interstate,
through the streetlights and the snowy fields.
There’s a warm glow inside my soul and I can’t shake it
And though a sign says road work ahead ten miles,
I know this time ain’t gonna last.
They’re waiting for us in Cleveland now and I think we’re gonna make it.

They’re waiting for us in Cleveland now—this time we’re gonna make it.