| G | C | G | |
| time - measured in dotted yellow | lines has past you | by |
| G | C | G | |
| and I never said an honest thing to | you in all my | life |
| D | C | |
| hard | times go | slowly |
| G | D | |
| and the good | times never | come |
| C | G | D | |
| the world is a | motor inn in a | iowa highway | slum |
| G | D | C | |
| when the open | road is closing | in |
| Em | D | A | |
| and you can't say where it | ends and you | begin |
| G | D | C | B7 | |
| when | every truck stop | dive's another | five years off your | life |
| G | D | C | |
| when the open | road is closing | in |
| Em | D | A | |
| and the dotted yellow | lines begin to | spin |
| G | D | C | B7 | |
| when the | sky begins to | fall on every | thing you like at | all |
| Am | D | Am | D | G | |
| you won't be | coming home a | gain |
| ciao you keep on drowning in the roads between the towns |
| now i have been closing all the shutters in the house |
| well i know you'll be back when every tree is turning brown |
| you'll find the house is empty and the swingset's fallen down |