Cheyenne

I am going on my way to see what's left of Cheyenne,
I've known the name all my life, ain't put a face to it yet,
And there's just too many things I ain't seen so I am,
Driving north to find it,

And every couple miles the reception dies out,
And there's a buzzing in my mind, a little looming cloud,
Like I'm waiting on a call that I'm gonna miss somehow,
Ain't that some sweet irony,

I was hoping to feel something undeniable,
I was sold a bill of goods by documentaries and books,
'Cause it's just another town on its way back down,
To being wholly unremarkable,

There's a dead famous writer buried in some southern state,
He won the Pulitzer Prize, now he's a weekend trip away,
And I figured I'd sit calmly in the grass beside his grave,
But it was dirt and empty bottles,

I was hoping to feel something undeniable,
I was sold a bill of goods by documentaries and books,
And it strikes me that he would be shaken by this scene,
So doesn't that make me the problem,

I am going on my way to see what's left of Cheyenne,
I've known the name all my life, ain't put a face to it yet,
And there's just too many things I ain't seen so I am,
Driving north to find it