(chorus) E'reybody running it as fast as they can,
Chuggin' it down and reachin' for another,
'Bowin' their brother outa the way
Like they can't be late for their own funeral.

Look at the trees rushing by out the window,
Look at the town, so pretty and sweet,
Little picket fences, swings on the branches,
Little Sunday dresses at the lemonade stand.
(chorus)

Dappled sunlight thru the dancing oak leaves
On the concrete sidewalk where the stand sits perched,
And the four little girls are counting their money
And their momma's calling them home for church.

Somebody hollers, "You better get on board.
The train's a leavin' and it ain't coming back."
And you're half a mile from the Birmingham station,
With an old guitar and a fifty pound pack
.
(break) Pick up you feet! Keep a runnin'!
You still got time to say your prayers.
And leave your pack if you're getting tired,
But you hold on tight to that old guitar.

But here she comes: black chain lightning.
Whizzing past at a hundred and ten,
Wind in the weeds, sparks and gravel,
Clickety-clank and she's round the bend.
(chorus)

And it's a country road where there ain't much traffic
An empty bottle rolling 'cross the floor,
A distant whistle when she hits the tunnel--
That's it pal---there isn't any more.
(chorus)