watching an already dead world vanish,
we the banished and outlawed wander
hither and yonder like dogs gone hungry.
funky and angry and sometimes ugly.

drums like drugs have turned us to scavengers,
pathfinders, addicts, and mathematicians,
practioners of blackmagic.
we make music from used up junk and bad luck dreams.

liars and losers, emus and aardvarks,
gypsies and penthieves, pedalers, cardsharks.
all of us fortune tellers combing the forest.
hardcore, building a cardboard fortress.

forward fast and backwards blindfolded.
trying to find gold buried in floodplains.
covered in bloodstains, flybites and egg yolk.
running away with one of my legs broke.

sometimes it's lonesome travelling homeless.
not knowing where you're going, riding the railroads.
pick up some sailboats, and most of the locamotives
once we decide to see some of the countryside.

working with circus performers and cutthroats.
discussions with percussionists, perverts, and poets.
haven't you ever heard of the... 1200 hobos??

we ain't vampires dressed like rock stars,
we build campfires and ride boxcars
town to town, we just write songs,
and plus we stay up like all night long.

we ain't vampires dressed like rock stars,
we build campfires and ride boxcars
town to town, we just write songs,
and plus we stay up like all night long.