Melora Vilas, rising by candlelight,
Looked at herself in the bottom of the tin
basin
And wished that she had a mirror. [...]
She remembered roads and places.
She was seventeen. She had seen a lot of
places,
A lot of roads. Pop was always moving along.
Everybody she'd ever known was moving
along.
Dusty wagons full of chickens and children,
Full of fools and quilts, Rising Sun and
Roses of Sharon,
Moving from State to State behind tired,
scuffed horses
Because the land was always better
elsewhere. But it never began.
Next time they'd quit. Next stop they'd
settle right down.
Next year they'd have time to rub up the
mahogany dresser.
Next place, Mom could raise the flowers
she wanted to raise.
They were always moving along.