Harwick & Dixie

There are no souls on Harwick.

There are no souls on Dixie. 

Only trampled shells move

Down its roads toward chaos.

Bumper to bumper shoelaces

All tied together in knots,

Tangled, all falling together. 

There are no souls on 9th, 

And nothing real on Broadway.

Half of the city is shutdown

And the only option, is the freeway. 

We have Derby in May, 

And no true local gives a damn about it. 

It's just another uneventful event 

For more traffic to sweep in

Bogging down our lives 

As a whole load of jaded tourists

Bore themselves through

A place where every dream goes-to-die

With every ounce of hope 

Swallowed deep inside of it. 

Louisville is a place 

Where the doors are barred

And the cars are shut off, 

And the gunfire in the streets keep singing. 

There are no views in Pleasure Ridge,

And all of our agonizing hopes 

Have left from The Station. 

But, if you want a car... you can heist it.

And If you want to live; Dodge it!

This city, is a pass thru town,

One that hardly ever owns up to its failure. 

Its citizens once said:

"It's possible. That this is Possibility City!" 

Well, it's possible, that no one ever tried,

To give it any redeeming qualities.

No one person can save a city.

Though many people

Have saved their wallets.

And many more have lost theirs,

Down its thru-ways toward their vision

People now hold signs on corners, 

Pleading to oncoming traffic for salvation. 

There is no saviour in a church. 

Only the shells of a dire few who remain

Clinging to a pew 

To hear holy words in denial.

Shielding themselves from reality.

Blessed be, are the lies that heal 

From a house of god. 

A church, 

is a hotel for sinners 

And a rehab for saints. 

A place that houses human indignity 

Which goes on to perpetually instill

Its moral values of hypocrisy 

For generations that arrive.

It is a place, good enough like any another,

To pass on through...