You were hiding in the backseat of my Lincoln
Underneath a blanket with your head against the door
And I was already halfway through Ohio
When I heard your soft voice singing to a song on the radio

I crept out in the darkness of the morning
Past our sleeping father, a cold cigar lying at his feet
He was surrounded by his books down in the parlor
Filled with all the words that he had wanted us to read and know

But this is not an old American story
About the rugged men who came out from the east
And I am not some outlaw from the Badlands
Or a gambler running tables in New Orleans
So I put you on a bus back to Boston
With some money in your shoe for a meal
And I turn my car in the other direction
Just hoping that I hear a note from the backseat