Lyrics
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 coat
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, until you actually 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)
(Fun, fun, fun, fun for the summertime blues)
(It's gonna set you free)
