Pan-American Blues

A fifth on decoration day for the doctor that fixed my arm
The federales back from Tuscon, each one got an arm gone
Limehouse Pratt got dim inside
Can’t see the painted ladies runaround at night
A wood-paneled room
My cigarette fumes waltz and dissolve just for you
There’s gonna be a truce
There’s gonna be a truce
There’s gonna be a truce
But first you got to set your horses loose
A jaguar simmering in a cage
Give him a chance
Can you tell the answer from the ants?
History’s got its walking papers
Can’t get enough of the make-up
That makes it look so tough
Well, it seems just like a freeze-out
Seems just like a freeze-out
Seems just like a freeze-out
An undisclosed, deeply wooded
Lose your way route