Everybody's talking like they can't sit down And looking like they can't stand up It must be the lastest style And they've seen a lot of things that you never see Back on the mile up to the hanging tree Some people can't keep their fingers clean Just clicking their heels to the beat of the scene Trying to keep careen until the first edition of last night's obituries Jump up--hold on tight Can't trust the promise or a guarantee 'Cause the man 'round the curve says that he's never heard Of you or me
No tombstone would ever surprise me When I'm locked in a room about half the size of a matchbox Got holes in my socks They match the ones that I got in my feet I put my feet in the holes in the street and somebody paved me over I was a statue standing on the corner Tell me, how else can a boy get to see those pretty pleats?
Candidate talkin' on the radio from the "Cheaters Jamboree" It must be their lastest fool 'Cause it's a two-horse race and he changed his bets Like it was just another brand of cigarettes
Some people judge and they just guess the rest They can't understand that don't mean that you're blessed They ought to catch the Express Next Stop No Where That way you can forget
Jump up--hold on tight Can't trust the promise or a guarantee 'Cause the man 'round the curve says that he's never heard Of you or me
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