They come in them big ten wheelers,
rollin' down the highway
from Illinois and Nebraska and Oregon,
too.
Carryin' apples and automobiles
to California, mostly.
Down from the mountains to
where there's sun.
Every one of them's the son of a gun.
A loner living out of the back of his cab,
turning on his smile
for the waitress
at the next truck stop.
Outside wind is singing,
slow down baby,
you're almost there.
Around the bend there's a
truck stop waiting,
maybe the Golden Gate,
with seagulls in her hair.
Their names are Thompson and Black
and Drellsford, Lucky Jim.
Some of them got badges
on big silver belt buckles
that say Daredevil or Kansas
City or Freewheeler.
They're all freewheelers,
lovin' off the land,
sleepin' in the cabs of their trucks,
curled up there in the boot,
dreamin' themselves in
other places.
Meanwhile,
the world drives by on the highway,
and every breakfast
is a brand -new breakfast table
at the truck stop up the road.
the wind is singing,
slow down baby,
you're almost there.
Round the bend there's
a truck stop waiting,
maybe the golden day,
with seagulls in her hair.
Sometimes you see them
kicking at their tires
along the highway,
or hogging the road from
from some dude
who tried to pass him on a hill.
They don't talk much.
They're friendlier to strangers
and to their own.
You get them talking, though,
and that's something else.
They tell you about women
they've never been with,
towns they ain't never seen.
Don't argue with them,
let them talk.
They're mean as beavers.
But they're easy, too.
You ask one of them waitresses
at one of them truck stops,
she'll tell you.
Outside the wind is singing
Slow down, baby,
you're almost there
Round the bend there's a truck,
stop waitin'
Maybe the Golden Gate
with seagulls in her hair
Outside the wind is singing
Slow down, baby,
you're almost there
Round the bend there's
a truck stopping
Maybe the golden gay
With seagulls in her hair