I asked an archaeologist
if he'd hold me through the night
if I gave him ten dollars.
He said all right.
There's long black hair in his cactus
and the stop sign spins in place.
And he already has a woman he says
I don't replace.
And he points to the proof, there it is on the wall,
the proof, the proof, the proof.


There's people you can see.
People you'll never see.
We made one of them, didn't we?
Believing in both he leaves to me.
"Archaeology starts from the known," he says,
"that's how it's going to be."
And he points to the proof, there it is on the wall,
the proof, the proof, the proof.


He likes to think he's a lonely chief.
I like to think I'm a troubadour.
But he's just an alcoholic shovelbum for the state
and I'm just a girl who walks this beautiful world without proof.