Black Out

Sunday drive past your own hall of fame

It's closed on weekdays, shut for good

Pick out no one when you're talking, felt like rattlesnakes were walking

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 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

I need to know where does it go?

How do I get there and what will I find?

Fun, fun, fun, fun for the summertime blues

It's gonna set you free

Fun, fun, fun, fun for the summertime blues