Quick to the back of the bus, fire took the front, through a smokey haze we see the ways this plan of ours could go so wrong. Plot our escape to the interstate a back road puzzle pieces us home. No souvenirs of the circumstance, just a promise no one would know.
The media called it tragic, the cameras they caught no trace, no license plates, no prints, from finger or foot, just a burnt out chassis of ash and soot. Sullen faces and watery eyes, caused their fans to sympathize. They turned the tables, they sold the crime, we did all the work and never saw a dime.
In the bright black of night, bathed in red hot light, the flames danced like tight jeans on a frontman. Chills down my spine, when my thoughts rewind. Haunts me like carbonite sealing away Han.
Burning wreckage in our past, twisted metal and the fumes of gas, buses torched and airplanes crashed, rock and roll fantasies turned to ash. Blew out the tires on Burton's bus, poured sugar in Skynard's tank, we bought the last round of Scotch for Bon Scott, don't mess with us, we'll fuck you up.