Black Out

Sunday drive past your own hall of fame

It's closed on weekdays, shut for good

They got no one when you're talking

Thoughts like rattlesnakes were walking

No one has a clue

The parting shots

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, they start to turn in

Just 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, fun, fun, fun for the summertime blues

(It's gonna set you free)

Fun, fun, fun, fun, for the summertime blues