Coyote (Live at the Santa Barbara County Bowl, September 9, 1979|2024 Remaster)

Coyote (Live) - Joni Mitchell

Written by：Joni Mitchell

No regrets coyote

We just come from such different sets of circumstance

I'm up all night in the studios

And you're up early on your ranch

You'll be brushing out a brood mare's tail

While the sun is ascending

And I'll just be getting home with my reel to reel

There's no comprehending

Just how close to the bone and the skin and the eyes

And the lips you can get

And still feel so alone

And still feel related

Like stations in some relay

You're not a hit and run driver no no

Racing away

You just picked up a hitcher

A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway

We saw a farmhouse burning down

In the middle of nowhere

In the middle of the night

And we rolled right past that tragedy

Till we turned into some road house lights

Where a local band was playing

Locals were up kicking and shaking on the floor

And the next thing I know

That coyote's at my door

He pins me in a corner and he won't take no

He drags me out on the dance floor

And we're dancing close and slow

Now he's got a woman at home

He's got another woman down the hall

He seems to want me anyway

Why'd you have to get so drunk

And lead me on that way

You just picked up a hitcher

A prisoner of the white lines of the freeway

I looked a coyote right in the face

On the road to baljennie near my old home town

He went running thru the whisker wheat

Chasing some prize down

And a hawk was playing with him

Coyote was jumping straight up and making passes

He had those same eyes just like yours

Under your dark glasses

Privately probing the public rooms

And peeking thru keyholes in numbered doors

Where the players lick their wounds

And take their temporary lovers

And their pills and powders to get them thru this passion play

No regrets coyote

I just get off up aways

You just picked up a hitcher

A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway

Coyote's in the coffee shop

He's staring a hole in his scrambled eggs

He picks up my scent on his fingers

While he's watching the waitresses' legs

He's too fat from the bay of Fundy

From appaloosas and eagles and tides

And the air conditioned cubicles

And the carbon ribbon rides

Are spelling it out so clear

Either he's going to have to stand and fight

Or take off out of here

I tried to run away myself

To run away and wrestle with my ego

And with this flame

You put here in this Eskimo

In this hitcher

In this prisoner

Of the fine white lines

Of the white lines on the free free way