He's the kind of guy
Puts on a motorcycle jacket
And he weighs about

A hundred and five

He's the kind of surfer

Got a ho daddy haircut
And you wonder how
He'll ever survive


He's the kind of frogman
Wearing twenty pounds

Of counter weights and
Sinking in the sea like a stone


He's the kind of soldier
Got no sense of direction
And they send him

In the jungle alone

But when the

Frost's on the pumpkin
And the litle girls are jumping
He's a hard loving son of a gun


He's got em waiting downstairs
Just to sample his affairs

And they call him
A spoonful of fun


He's the kind of person
Going riding on a skateboard
And his mind's raging

Out of control

He's the kind of person

Goes to drive a Maserati
Puts his key inside
The wrong little hole


He's the kind of ski bum
Tearing wild down the mountain

Hits a patch where
There ain't any snow


He's the kind of cowboy
Got a hot trigger finger
Shoots his boot cause

He's drawing kind of slow

But when he comes in for bowling

He's an expert at rolling
Sets the pins up
And lays em right down


He's got em taking off their heels
And they like the way he feels

And they call him a carnival clown

Well, he's got a parachute

And screaming like Geronimo
And makes a little hole
In the ground


He's the kind of logger
When the man hollers, timber

Got to stop and look
Around for the sound


He's the kind of artist
Rents a groovy little attic
And discovers that he

Can't grow a beard

He's the human cannonball

Come in for a landing
And he wonders where
The net disappeared

But when he takes off his shoes

It won't come as news
That they're lining up
On threes and in twos

He's got em pounding on the door

Got em begging for some more
He's got em pounding on the door
Got em begging for some more
And they call him
Whatever they choose