sunday driving past your own hall of fame
|
it's closed on weekdays, shut for good
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pick out no one when you're talkin'
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felt like rattlesnakes were walkin'
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no one has a clue
|
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the parting shots, the thin caught
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fault line 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
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until the lights begin to bleed
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lights; til you actually a-see the rays
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and your thoughts they start turning
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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
|
wrestling with the elements up on the trail high
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i need to know
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where does it go? how do i get there? 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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|
-----------------
|
Black out
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| Pavement |
