On the way out to the stairs
Tommy got scared, and threw
Champagne in my hair
Your heart's not made of wood;
It's made of chicken
The season for ripe fruit
Scream all you want, there's nothing i can do
You know me, anyway;
I never help out when i can lie around
He's got a big new job
To get ahead, you squeal like a big hog
That knows its friend is the butcher
Even hogs have to feel strange
Where he's not welcome there in the slow lane
The smell of burning rubber
Is sweeter than that of any lover
Drugstore's on the hill
It's closed now, it sold its last pill
I earn money the old-fashioned way
Down at the bus depot

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