Ship dust on my boots Customs stamp still warm on my hand Follow that crooked sign Up the rusted road through the sand One lone store on the corner Flickering holo Half the letters gone Bar next door hums low Everybody acting like I’ve always belonged Weekend in Zephyr Where the windmills turn and never sleep Sun stuck on the shoulder Of a sky that never gets deep Throw my worries on the counter Trade ’em for a drink and a seat Weekend in Zephyr Feels like time slipped out of reach Old man sells canned beans And a cracked blue postcard of the pole Laughs Says “tourist season” Though this place could barely fill a roll Barmaid deals greasy cards Names every crater on Hurston by heart Independent flags on the rafters Faded But they still look sharp Weekend in Zephyr Where the windmills turn and never sleep Sun stuck on the shoulder Of a sky that never gets deep Out here the factions blur Just tired souls and dusty feet Weekend in Zephyr Feels like time slipped out of reach Step outside for a breath Wind sings through the blades overhead (oh) Shadow circles my boots But the daylight never goes red Ask myself what I’m chasing When the next ship calls me down ’Cause this broken little hilltop Feels more like home than any town Weekend in Zephyr Where the windmills turn and never sleep Sun stuck on the shoulder Of a sky that never gets deep If I leave in the morning Will this lullaby repeat? Weekend in Zephyr Where losing track of time feels sweet
