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)