Friday night I’m just hangin' around
a campfire staring at the ground.
Is there anything new in this town
or just the same old fun?
My friends want to go for a ride.
I’d rather stay inside.
We go through this every time
the fire burns down.
It’s nights like this I think
about my cousin in Beijing.
He plans to spend eternity
traveling the world.
I call this town home it’s true
but familiar homes can burden you.
Will I ever leave this town?
Or just hang around?
Monday I’m pulling out my hair
sitting in my boss's chair
'till I see a man on the square
I’ve never seen before.
He carries a bag and walks alone,
limping across the road,
stops to finish his ice cream cone
though he looks too old for ice cream.
Peering through bent window blinds
I see his face looks like mine,
with a scar just above the eye.
Oh what are the odds?
I call this town home it’s true.
I’ve known everyone by name since school.
So who's this in my town
just hangin' around?
Lately I see him everyday,
the man who calls himself Gray.
He's traveled the world and parlayed
with the rich and distinguished.
He hit it off well with my friends,
telling them stories of men
too wise and bizarre to invent
but I don’t trust him.
There's something familiar in his eyes
and I don't know why
but the way he laughs implies
they are my own.
I called this town home it’s true
until this stranger came through.
When will he leave my town
and stop hangin' around?
Everyone in town is quite pleased,
when I'm out of reach,
to pass the bottle while he reads
from his journal.
I remember those entries well
even before I heard him tell
about the time he posted bail
for a state congressman.
I never told anyone the name
but our stories are the same.
Now it's getting hard to say
which of us is real.
I've called him a stranger it’s true,
but when the stranger is you
who will leave town
and who will hang around?