Sunday driving past your own hall of fame

It's closed on weekdaysshut for good

Pick out no one when you're talkin'

Felt like rattlesnakes were walkin'

No one has a clue



The parting shotsthe thin caught

Fault line dancing across the frigid air shafts

A spastic grassa 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 funfun for the summertime blues)

(it's gonna set you free)