He's the kind of guy Puts on a motorcycle jacket And he weighs about A hundred and five
He's the kind of surfer Got a ho daddy haircut And you wonder how He'll ever survive
He's the kind of frogman Wearing twenty pounds Of counter weights and Sinking in the sea like a stone
He's the kind of soldier Got no sense of direction And they send him In the jungle alone
But when the Frost's on the pumpkin And the litle girls are jumping He's a hard loving son of a gun
He's got em waiting downstairs Just to sample his affairs And they call him A spoonful of fun
He's the kind of person Going riding on a skateboard And his mind's raging Out of control
He's the kind of person Goes to drive a Maserati Puts his key inside The wrong little hole
He's the kind of ski bum Tearing wild down the mountain Hits a patch where There ain't any snow
He's the kind of cowboy Got a hot trigger finger Shoots his boot cause He's drawing kind of slow
But when he comes in for bowling He's an expert at rolling Sets the pins up And lays em right down
He's got em taking off their heels And they like the way he feels And they call him A carnival clown
Well, he's got a parachute And screaming like Geronimo And makes a little hole In the ground
He's the kind of logger When the man hollers, timber Got to stop and look Around for the sound
He's the kind of artist Rents a groovy little attic And discovers that he Can't grow a beard
He's the human cannonball Come in for a landing And he wonders where The net disappeared
But when he takes off his shoes It won't come as news That they're lining up On threes and in twos
He's got em pounding on the door Got em begging for some more He's got em pounding on the door Got em begging for some more And they call him Whatever they chooseTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
