Cheekbone City

The ploughman comes to Cheekbone City
He stares down at the limousines
He stares up at the smoke-glass towers
He pulls his money-belt one notch in
Cheekbone City
Cheekbone City
He considers the women’s ankles
Their fine fine fine hair
Fingers the change in his pocket
He scratches his ear
Cheekbone City
Cheekbone City
In the bar he speaks to no one
He nods around the room and smils
Already tasting tomorrow’s headache
And very one of those bumpy miles
Cheekbone City
Cheekbone City
Cheekbone City
Cheekbone City