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Sunday drive past your own hall of fame |
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It's closed on weekdays, shut for good |
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Pick out no one when you're talking, felt like rattlesnakes were walking |
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No one has a clue |
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The parting shots |
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The thin caught fault line |
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Dancing across the frigid air shafts |
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A spastic grass, a criminal's child |
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Count to ten and read until the lights begin to bleed |
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Lights, 'til you actually see the rays |
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And your thoughts they start turning, tells you lessons that you're learning |
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No one has a clue |
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The gauzy thoughts of those dirty Scots |
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Wrestling with the elements up on the trail high |
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I need to know where does it go? |
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How do I get there and what will I find? |
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Fun, fun, fun, fun for the summertime blues |
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It's gonna set you free |
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Fun, fun, fun, fun for the summertime blues |
