The ploughman comes to Cheekbone City he stares down at the limousines he stares up at the smoke-glass towers he pulls his money-belt one notch in Cheekbone City! He considers the women's ankles their fine fine fine hair fingers the change in his pocket he scratches his ear In the bar he speaks to no-one he nods around the room and smiles already tasting tomorrow's headache And everyone of those bumpy miles
