The white lines of the motorway, straight narrow guiding signs
Funnel with authority, they're the totem of our times
Placards with their morals, on the avenues of escape
Regulate the voyagers who blindly participate
I am a victim of travel, the byways my domain
I fling my door wide open and yet I return again
This roadway runs my life, and it pulls me to my feet,
begs, pleads and promises, but offers no release
Machines in lines for hours, like links in a consumer chain
Each unit is independent of the sprawling cattle lanes
My stomach knots about and my anger starts to wake,
To be a frozen Adam on a Godless winding snake
We leave our homes and are molded by the Order of the Route
Bullets in a tarmac rifle, we wait for it to shoot
We cross this changing land and we motor through its space
You, me and the carnival troupe firmly locked in our place
These veins of industry pump their blood and the transport lumbers on
A wake of noise and diesel fumes in a tuneless traffic hum
These white lines so straight and narrow, they march the endless miles
Against a uniform grey, with no hint, no hint of a smile
I am a victim of travel, the byways my domain,
I fling my door wide open and I'm pulled along again
Placards screaming morals along the avenue of escape
Regulate the voyagers, who blindly participate