Monterey
Larry Beckett / Tim Buckley
Under the loop of stars
In the vulgar cold
The dead airport lay
By the pebbles of the highway
You soared to your lover
I hurried away my darling
With a howl in my throat
Hiding inside the weeds
In the orange grove
Black rooster crowed
Through the hollow of the midnight
With my blood shot
With stains on my fingers
I run with the damned my darlind
They have taught me to laugh