Out past the trees there is nothing to burn Just an empty gas station, left to me in a will Just a plate of bad habits and plenty of salt for the wounds Just a plate of bone china and plenty of salt for the wounds At night there are voices By the old station house They come from an angel with a kerosene tongue She say's: "there is trouble, a trouble that no one can name" She say's: "help is too late when the memory doesn't remain" Blown down the wind Let the trouble begin Get blown away Never look back again Down on the troubled wind Down on the troubled wind You can come on the nightbus and spend a few days You can set some explosions and fall asleep in this bed But I know that you won't stay with hundreds of miles to go Trouble has no friends when trouble needs some place to go Blown down the wind Let the trouble begin