Words and music copyright 1998 by Steve Brooks

There’s a cargo rolling on the railroad.
People tremble at its name.
It once did fall from heaven
As a gleaming sword of flame.
They’re supposed to turn it to a plowshare,
Or at least a frying pan.
Now it’s riding cross the country
In the napalm caravan.

Twenty years it sat in San Diego
Till the canisters did crack.
They sent it to Chicago,
But Chicago sent it back.
Now a toxic furnace down in Texas
Is the one to raise its hand,
To be the final resting place
Of the napalm caravan.

It’s a dirty, dirty piece of business,
From a dirty little war.
It goes right on a-falling
On the powerless and poor.
From the bays and bayous down in Texas
To the fields of Vietnam,
It’s hard to find a hiding place
From the napalm caravan.

Maybe we should be a little grateful
For the bombs that didn’t fall,
But you have to stop and wonder
Why we build more bombs at all.
I can see another train a-rolling,
When we finally take a stand.
It’s a train that’s bound for glory,
Not the napalm caravan.
Not a train that’s bound for nowhere,
Like the napalm caravan.