 In the back of a car on a road in the dark
In the stillicide, silently falling snow
I have packed everything that I own in a bag
And I’m driving, I’m driving to Idaho.
A poem for leaving, a reason to go
So I’m driving, I’m driving to Idaho
Cause I can’t be anyone but me, anyone but me.
And I can’t keep dreaming that I’m free, dreaming that I’m free
I don’t want to fall asleep and watch my life from fifty feet
My hands are on the wheel so I’m driving to Idaho.
Cause I hear it’s mighty pretty...
And oh, I’ve been dumb, I’ve been perfectly beautiful
Lain on my back buying lovers with stealth.
But I’m sick of you all, and I’m sick of opinions
And I’m sick of this war I wage on myself...
I don’t know why I’m so gripped to go there –
A universe riddle that only I know?
Mr Robert he says, ‘It’s all in the head!’
Tell me, Phaedrus, what’s good, is it Idaho?
Cause I can’t be anyone but me, anyone but me.
And I can’t keep dreaming that I’m free, dreaming that I’m free
I don’t want to fall asleep and watch my life from fifty feet
My hands are on the wheel so I’m driving to Idaho.
Cause I hear it’s mighty pretty...
In Idaho.
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