Everybody's talking like they can't sit down 

And looking like they can't stand up

It must be the lastest style

And they've seen a lot of things that you never see

Back on the mile up to the hanging tree

Some people can't keep their fingers clean

Just clicking their heels to the beat of the scene

Trying to keep careen until the first edition of last night's obituries



Jump up--hold on tight

Can't trust the promise or a guarantee

'Cause the man 'round the curve says that he's never heard

Of you or me



No tombstone would ever surprise me 

When I'm locked in a room about half the size of a matchbox

Got holes in my socks

They match the ones that I got in my feet

I put my feet in the holes in the street and somebody paved me over

I was a statue standing on the corner

Tell me, how else can a boy get to see those pretty pleats?



Candidate talkin' on the radio from the "Cheaters Jamboree"

It must be their lastest fool

'Cause it's a two-horse race and he changed his bets 

Like it was just another brand of cigarettes



Some people judge and they just guess the rest

They can't understand that don't mean that you're blessed

They ought to catch the Express Next Stop No Where 

That way you can forget



Jump up--hold on tight

Can't trust the promise or a guarantee

'Cause the man 'round the curve says that he's never heard

Of you or me