More songs by Bruce Springsteen
Description
Nebraska '82: Expanded Edition
Bass: Garry Tallent
Composer, Vocal, Associated Performer, Electric Guitar, Producer, Lyricist: Bruce Springsteen
Drums: Max Weinberg
Producer: Jon Landau
Producer: Stevie Van Zandt
Engineer, Recording Engineer: Toby Scott
Assistant Engineer: Jeff Hendrickson
Assistant Engineer: Zoe Yanakis
Mixing Engineer: Rob Lebret
Mastering Engineer: Brian Lee
Mastering Engineer: Bob Jackson
Lyrics and translation
Original
A-one, two, three, four.
Well, I had the carburetor, baby, cleaned and checked.
With her line blown out, she's hummin' like a turbojet. I propped her up in the backyard on concrete blocks.
Her new clutch, plate, and a new set of shocks.
Took her down to the car wash, checked the plugs and points, because I'm goin' out tonight, I'm gonna rock this joint. Hurley, North Jersey, industrial skyline.
I'm an all-set Cobra Jet creepin' through the nighttime. Gotta find a gas station, gotta find a payphone.
This turnpike sure is spooky at night when you're all alone. I hit the gas because
I'm runnin' late. It's New Jersey in the mornin' like a lunar landscape.
Woo. That's right.
Now, the boss don't dig me, so he put me on the night shift.
Takes me two hours to get back to where my baby lives. In the wee, wee hours your mind gets hazy.
Radio really tires, won't you lead me to my baby?
Underneath the overpass, I droop her into party lights. Switch. Good night, good luck, one, two, power shift. I met
Wanda when she was employed behind the counter at the Route 60 Bob's Big Boy.
Fried chicken on the front seat, she's sittin' on my lap.
We're wipin' our fingers on the Texaco road map.
I remember Wanda up on Scrap Metal Hill with them big brown eyes that make your heart stand still.
Woo-hoo-hoo.
Ow.
Yeah, hey, hey.
Hey, that's the one.
Yeah, 5 AM, the oil pressure's sinkin' fast.
I make a pit stop, pop the windshield, buddy, check your gas. I gotta call my baby on the telephone.
Let her know that her daddy boy's comin' on home.
I gotta two more hours, but I'm coverin' ground. It's 6 AM, a Sunday mornin', I'm a-comin' around.
My eyes are gettin' itchy in the wee, wee hours. Sun's just a red ball risin' over them refinery towers.
Radio jammed up with gospel stations. Lost souls callin' long distance salvation.
Hey, Mr. DJ, you gotta hear my last prayer.
Hey, pull a rock 'n' roll deliver me from nowhere. Hey, tra-la-de-da, doo-doo-dee-down, down.
Yoo-doo-lay, tra-la-de-da, doo-dee-down, down.
Yoo-doo-lay, tra-la-de-da, doo-dee-down, down. Yoo-doo-lay, tra-la-de-da, doo-dee-down, down.
Yoo-doo-lay, tra-la-de-da, doo-dee-down, down.
Yoo-doo-lay, tra-la-de-da, doo-dee-down, down. Yoo-doo-lay, tra-la-de-da, doo-doo. Ow.
Hold it.
Woo.
Hello, baby.