|
You gotta have the right tools |
|
For every job |
|
So i invite myself in |
|
Through a hole in the fence |
|
I am tripping through the junkyard |
|
Scanning over the piles |
|
The thin cats raise their skin in defense |
|
I know he's watching me |
|
I can see him through the cracks |
|
His eyes are small and shy on my back |
|
He says his name is jason |
|
He lives in the last trailer on the right |
|
And he'll be seven |
|
On the fourth of july |
|
Only the people who live here |
|
Know the name of this place |
|
My path through iowa would be |
|
Hard to trace |
|
All the adults in this town |
|
Try not to frown |
|
When i walk by |
|
But jason smiled at me |
|
He met my eye |
|
He don't ask me |
|
Where i'm from |
|
Or why i came |
|
Here alone |
|
We all go looking for paradise |
|
Then we go back home |
|
We cut out the small talk |
|
Go right to the way things are |
|
He showed me his squirrel skull |
|
I told him i locked myself out of my car |
|
So there goes the only friend |
|
I have in iowa |
|
His hand flapping behind him |
|
Waving good-bye |
|
His name is jason |
|
He lives in the last trailer on the right |
|
And he'll be seven |
|
On the fourth of july |
