The children of parents who swing roll around town and grow up banging their good brains against the walls of the world we live in While nighttime bed springs sang the children sat in one room with only each other and learning the lessons that will make them very good drunks. What makes mother and father has broken down and picking up fags and touching tongues they stick out hips and laugh too loud Growing up to paint their lips and hide their hearts The need for trust so keen that one body cannot hold it it trembles and stumbles inside them their souls painted by Picasso And in hand-me-down clothes and broken down trailers they protect and protect and protect. I don't judge I'm sure it seemed like a fine idea at the time.
Rugs hold onto dirt and catch your high heels. I have no time for rugs, let's roll them on up. Let's throw some sawdust on the floor. Let's put some music on. Let's wake the children, rouse the neighbors, and see who has the rhythm in 'em. It's time to dance.