Well, it's the strangling of the scene
The most peculiar of design
The rods and cones just crossed the line
The one that makes the engine run
But as the sun goes down at Rincon
It makes the strangest of design
It's the scrambling of the signal
That stops the tune of Earnest Ranglin

I've reached out to every crook I've seen
The lonely life of the wrangler appears to shine
Well, it's the granite of your fingers
That drinks me underneath the table
It's the shuffling of the cards
That keeps me running half the time