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