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)
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