Underneath was beating slimy green
Saint Laurent built in the Seventies
No intelligent thing left to say
All washed up and bid them wash away
Motorcycle nineteen fifty-three
Yellow mounting cub and Indian chief
Rusted in then old bent dumpy shed
Pushed the wheel barrel over the tire tread
And I was like, "Oh my God, is this actually happening to me?"
Off of the side of the road you looked over cautiously
Rolled down the window, said you look like a girl I used to know
Why don't we leave this town together wherever the wind blows?
Through the d**h Fields in Colombia
Had to hitchhike back to Montezuma
Ended up in some place far away
Cowboy boots, two dollar switch blade
Seven Seven B-M-W
Series three that goes a hundred-two
Sittin' on the leather worn and torn
Muddy boot prints cover up the floor
And I was like, "Oh my God, is this actually happening to me?"
Off of the side of the road you looked over cautiously
Rolled down the window, said you look like a girl I used to know
Why don't we leave this town together wherever the wind blows?
Look at the posters that are on the wall
Michael Jordan standing six feet tall
It's in your closet or behind your bed
No Philly Phills or Cincinnati Red
Like Will the Thrill