Black Out

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)