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"Riding Shotgun"
ttto "Wagon Wheel" by Bob Dylan and Ketch Secor

Heading for home, but I'm sure to be late,
My route has me change at the emigrants' gate,
And that's where I stop, to see them set out on their new life.

There, sitting in a line, are thirty-four wains;
Mules the motive power for that old-style train,
'Cause an engine, don't you know, where they'll go has a just-won't-do
life.

So put me shotgun by a wagon wheel,
Put me shotgun, let me ride for real,
Hey, put me shotgun.
Put me shotgun, let me use my brain,
Put me shotgun, let me guide this train,
Hey, put me shotgun.

On a test for a class, through a gate we all went;
The time, though, would pass with no homing call sent,
So there we were left, to die or to make us a new home.

We made us a place where we'd made a great stand,
We planned what we'd do and we did what we planned,
When they found us, they removed us from what by then was my true home.

So put me shotgun by a wagon wheel,
Put me shotgun, let me ride for real,
Hey, put me shotgun.
Put me shotgun, let me use my brain,
Put me shotgun, let me guide this train,
Hey, put me shotgun.

At the gate where I'd watch, coming home as a boy,
A column of wagons once again is deployed;
I'm mounting my pinto to join them through Emigrant's Gap.

The gate is now open, "Reins Up!" is my shout,
A squeeze of my knees and I lead the train out,
Out on the road to a place where we'll draw our own map.

I'm riding shotgun by a wagon wheel,
Riding shotgun, and this time's for real,
Hey, riding shotgun.
Riding shotgun, where I'll use my brain,
Riding shotgun, where I'll guide this train,
Hey, riding shotgun.

--
Jeff

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