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 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)