[Verse 1] The rain in Duluth is a drifting grey mist, Blended with shadows the ore docks have missed. Down at the Harbor View, drowning the blues, With the smell of stale beer and the wintertime news. [Verse 2] In the furthest back booth where the vinyl is torn, Sits an old rolling stone who looks weary and worn. A silver-haired ghost from the old highway lines, With a corduroy cap and the weight of the times. [Verse 3] The bartender Arthur walks over the floor, Sets down a double of bourbon once more. No words need be spoken, no titles are claimed, Just a chrome marine band that has never been tamed. [Verse 4] A young girl named Clara sits three stools away, With a belt on her suitcase and nothing to say. She’s run out of road but she won't turn around, So she steps to his booth through the fog on the ground. [Verse 5] She asks for a seat as the north wind blows cold, He says, "Sit if you like, for the night’s growing old. The wind off the water don't care about walls, And the road looks the same when the dark curtain falls." [Chorus] Keep looking, Clara, keep walking somehow, The frost takes the bones of the ones who turn back now. The lake keeps its secrets, the old highways roll, And every lost traveler is carrying home a soul. [Verse 6] Then the jukebox awakes with a mechanical sigh, And an old crooner starts singing as hours go by. A monument written in days left behind, Of a phantom romance that you’re hoping to find. [Verse 7] He says, "I recorded that track in the dark, When the five-piece was shifting like wood in the park. It’s a song for the vanished, the gone, and the dead, For the street corner blues running loose in your head." [Verse 8] She says, "I am heading out West on the train, Just hoping he's there at the end of the rain." He smiles and he sighs, "Well, he might or he won't, But you gotta keep looking or the frost takes your bones." [Chorus] Keep looking, Clara, keep walking somehow, The frost takes the bones of the ones who turn back now. The lake keeps its secrets, the old highways roll, And every lost traveler is carrying home a soul. [Verse 9] He breathes in his harp with a low, crying chord, Then walks out the door to his silent reward. The bell gives a chime and he’s gone in the grey, Leaving Clara alone with the words left to say. [Outro] The rain in Duluth keeps falling down slow, And the last westbound whistle is ready to go.
