It was sometime after midnight, with five hundred miles to go
When I pulled into the truck stop looking for a cup of Joe;
I’m a loner by my nature, and a trucker by my trade.
It’s a lucky man can do the things he loves and still get paid.
It was just another diner, nothing special, nothing strange,
Just the sort of spot a man can stop when home is out of range.
Just a wide patch on the highway, neon, diesel, glass and chrome.
Not the sort of spectral port of call a good ghost should call home.
But she’s never been a good ghost, not for one day in her death;
She stopped playing by the rules the day that she gave up on breath.
She’s the angel of the truck stops; it’s the afterlife she chose.
She’s the flower of the graveyard, she’s our ageless roadside Rose.
She was standing in the shadows, neon highlights in her hair,
And I almost walked right by her, never knowing she was there.
She was laughing as she said, “Hey, Mister, help a girl in need?”…
And I don’t know why she chose me, nor the reason I agreed.
And the neon traveled with her as she moved to take a seat,
Like a sailor coming home the day his journey is complete.
Don McLean was on the jukebox, belting out his great good–bye;
When I asked her what she’d like, she smiled and said, “I’ll have the pie.”
And she’s never been a good ghost, not for one day in her death;
She stopped playing by the rules the day that she gave up on breath.
She’s the angel of the truck stops; it’s the afterlife she chose.
She’s the flower of the graveyard, she’s our ageless roadside Rose.
I don’t know just when I knew her, but I knew her all the same,
Because truckers have our legends, and our ghosts have got their fame.
She asked, “So have you guessed my name?” — I answered, “I suppose.”
Then I offered her my hand, and said, “It’s nice to meet you, Rose.”
Well, she didn’t seem a bit surprised as she reached for my hand,
And she didn’t have a heartbeat, and she said, “Please understand,
I’m not here to cause you trouble, and this isn’t what you think.
I’m not here to hurt or haunt you. I’m just looking for a drink.”
I said “I heard you were a killer,” she said “lies, all lies,
Though it’s true I’m often with a driver, on the night he dies.
For men can sometimes get confused on a road that they don’t know;
They need someone who knows the way and can tell them where to go.
They need someone to steer them straight to where they’re meant to be…
They need a hand to hold the map, and that’s why they need me.
And I’ve never been a good ghost, not for one day in my death,
I gave up on playing by the rules when I gave up on breath.
I’ll rove these roads forever — it’s the afterlife I chose —
But I’ll help you if I get the chance…” and I said, “Thank you, Rose.”
Well, I drove her to the limits of a town not far away,
And she vanished like a fable at the breaking of the day.
As she slipped away, she kissed my cheek and said, “We’ll meet again…”
And I find that I’m not worried ’bout the how, or ’bout the when.
For there’s beauty on the open road a man can learn to find;
Flowers blossom on the median, and fate is sometimes kind.
When it’s time to make the final drive, I won’t be scared at all,
Rose will be right here beside me, all along that final haul.
And she’s never been a good ghost, not for one day in her death;
She stopped playing by the rules the day that she gave up on breath.
She’s the angel of the truck stops; it’s the afterlife she chose.
She’s the flower of the graveyard, she’s our ageless roadside Rose.
She’s the blossom of the median; she’s the place a lost man goes.
She’s the flower of the graveyard, she’s our ageless roadside Rose.
