Everybody's talking like they can't sit down and looking like they can't stand up
It must be the latest style
And I seen a lot of things that you'd never see
back on the mile up to the hangin' tree
Some people can't keep their fingers clean
Just clicking their heels to the beat of the scene
Trying to keep careening 'til the first edition of last night obituaries
Jump up, hold on tight
You can't trust a promise or a guarantee
'cause the man 'round the curb 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 on the street, and somebody paved me over
I was a statue standing on the corner
Tell me, how else could a boy get to see those pretty pleats?
Candidate talking on the radio for the Cheater's Jamboree
It must be their latest fool
'Cause it's a two-horse race, and he changes bets like it was just another brand of cigarettes
Some people judge, then they just guess the rest
They can't understand it don't mean you're blessed
They ought to catch the express, next stop: nowhere
That way, you can't forget
Jump up, hold on tight
You can't trust a promise or a guarantee
'cause the man 'round the curb says that he's never heard of you or me