Black Out کے بول

Sunday driving past your own hall of fame It's closed on weekdays, shut for good Pick out no one when you're talkin' Felt like rattlesnakes were walkin' 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 a-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? what will I find? (fun fun fun, fun for the summertime blues) (it's gonna set you free)