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