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Like to meet some of these idiots |
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Who put up the signs |
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Like to burn the fabric |
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Outta their inner lines |
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Sheet lightning going down through the pines |
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With your shocks out of line |
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Your out of your mind |
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Crossing traintracks on switchbacks |
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Through the lands of the living |
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Pepe's gotta brand new bars for his liquor store |
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The Fort Knox of oblivion |
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When your driving through the city |
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Thanks god for the sea |
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Somebody's got to draw a line somewhere |
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And it might as well be Harry Belafonte |
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And now aint the time to hit the station |
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Crowded with the ghosts of the Be Bop Nation |
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'Tranes of thought and times of tones |
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Sometimes a little wistful cigarette smoke blowing |
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The President blew so that Bird could live |
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And each along the wire could give |
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The sunglass vision of the golden clef |
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And the ghetto rod divines which notes are left |
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Oh brothers I'm talking I'm talking |
|
He's got the solo on a wire |
|
This calls for a flock of angels |
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To hover over the holy pyre |
|
The President blew so that Bird could live |
|
And each along the wire could give |
|
The sunglass vision of the golden clef |
|
And the ghetto rod divines which notes are left |
|
Golden rain its the piss of Zeus |
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Mixing with the dead yellow Swing incects juice |
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Caught in the windshield headlights and sluice |
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As you battle ahead on Truth |
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Sheet lightning going down through the pines |
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With your shocks out of line - Your out of your mind |
|
Whispering in the plywood motel |
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Some crazy dish didnt turn out to well |
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Some dreamy argument - some delicious smell |
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Slow blizzards of petals coming at you in a storm |
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Thats the way you make me feel - Like warm |
