Chris Whitley
Indian Summer

The summer is lost now, the frost is closing in
To the cold Gospel dollar, the poor man walks in sin
I can't get no entrance, the doors all in rows
I pray into the distance, let me out of these heavy clothes


Indian summer, I need some return
It's so hard to get warm now
It's so easy to get burned
Down on the pavement, the laws are learned
It's so hard to get warm where
It's so easy to get burned

When sister called up and said that love had broken down
I said there's too much ice around here to find no solid ground
While I just squeeze a season from this paper bag
I pray to the burning tires and wrap my feet in rags

Now the sky is empty, the street is sweating tears
Communion at the station for a million grinding gears
While I'm riding out this century the harvest engine sing
From the church of mercenaries to a naked virgin spring

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