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