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 (x3)