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180426273.gif
Happy birthday
You're half way to sixty
You have no land of your own
A job you despise and a lover that's mean
And you started noticing a disturbing thing
Birds eating other birds just beyond the screen
So packed up your things and hopped on the freeway, headed east
And you drove for eight days aimlessly
Telling yourself to be humble
Singing yourself to be free
Being full aware that it's a middle aged crisis type thing
And you drove until you saw a sign for a town called Luckey
Spelled L-U-C-K-E-Y
Where the sugar towers rise to line and meet the streets
Checked into a motel, slept on cardboard sheets
That covered the blood-stained matress underneath
Went to the local bar and you got yourself a drink
Telling yourself to be humble
Singing yourself to be free
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
It was the most rag-tag group you had ever seen
A splendid man witha moustache on both sides, nothing in-between
Looking like a preachers son who had given into the devil-worshipping scene
He was a real looker and he bought you a drink
And you proceeded to tell him everything
And you were getting a bit hysterical it seemed
And you laughed like a carburetor, and then you screamed
All the doubt and the disbelief
Telling yourself to be humble
Singing yourself to be free
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
And he told you how he came to be
As an altar boy by his father's knees
And how he came to lose his faith
There was no touching but advances were made
And his father's hand in slow motion was approaching him
And the doubt and disbelief crept over his young heart like the black ocean
A storm cloud a hurricane if you will
A storm cloud a hurricane
Telling yourself to be humble
Singing yourself to be free
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
Go home lady, find yourself happy
It's just a middle aged crisis type thing
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
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It's a middle aged crisis type thing
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
It's just a middle aged crisis type thing
Go home lady, find yourself happy
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
Singing yourself to be free
Telling yourself to be humble
A storm cloud a hurricane
A storm cloud a hurricane if you will
And the doubt and disbelief crept over his young heart like the black ocean
And his father's hand in slow motion was approaching him
There was no touching but advances were made
And how he came to lose his faith
As an altar boy by his father's knees
And he told you how he came to be
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
Singing yourself to be free
Telling yourself to be humble
All the doubt and the disbelief
And you laughed like a carburetor, and then you screamed
And you were getting a bit hysterical it seemed
And you proceeded to tell him everything
He was a real looker and he bought you a drink
Looking like a preachers son who had given into the devil-worshipping scene
A splendid man witha moustache on both sides, nothing in-between
It was the most rag-tag group you had ever seen
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
Singing yourself to be free
Telling yourself to be humble
Went to the local bar and you got yourself a drink
That covered the blood-stained matress underneath
Checked into a motel, slept on cardboard sheets
Where the sugar towers rise to line and meet the streets
Spelled L-U-C-K-E-Y
And you drove until you saw a sign for a town called Luckey
Being full aware that it's a middle aged crisis type thing
Singing yourself to be free
Telling yourself to be humble
And you drove for eight days aimlessly
So packed up your things and hopped on the freeway, headed east
Birds eating other birds just beyond the screen
And you started noticing a disturbing thing
A job you despise and a lover that's mean
You have no land of your own
You're half way to sixty
Happy birthday
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