Sunday driving past your own hall of fame It's closed on weekdays, shut for good Pick out no one when you're talkin' Felt like rattlesnakes were walkin' No one has a clue
The parting shots, the thin caught Fault line dancing across the frigid air shafts A spastic grass, a criminal's child
Count to ten and read Until the lights begin to bleed Lights til you actually a-see the rays And your thoughts they start turning Tells you lessons that you're learning No one has a clue
The gauzy thoughts of those dirty scots Wrestling with the elements up on the trail high I need to know Where does it go? how do I get there? what will I find?
(fun fun fun, fun for the summertime blues) (it's gonna set you free)
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