Sunday drive past your own hall of fame
It's closed on week days shut for good
You've got no one when you're talking
Thoughts like rattlesnakes were walking
No one has a clue
The party's shot
The thin caught fault line dancing
Across the frigid air shack
The spastic rats,
The criminals chat
Count to ten and read
Until the lights begin to bleed lights
Until you actually see the rays
And your thoughts then start to turn and
Those lessons that you're learning
No one has a clue
The gauzy thoughts of the sturdy Scots
Wrestle with the elements
Up on the trail high
I need to know where does it go
How do I get there and what will I find
Fun for the summertime blues
