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
