| You gotta have the right tools
|
| For every job
|
| So i invite myself in
|
| Through a hole in the fence
|
| I am tripping through the junkyard
|
| Scanning over the piles
|
| The thin cats raise their skin in defense
|
| I know he’s watching me
|
| I can see him through the cracks
|
| His eyes are small and shy on my back
|
| He says his name is jason
|
| He lives in the last trailer on the right
|
| And he’ll be seven
|
| On the fourth of july
|
| Only the people who live here
|
| Know the name of this place
|
| My path through iowa would be
|
| Hard to trace
|
| All the adults in this town
|
| Try not to frown
|
| When i walk by
|
| But jason smiled at me
|
| He met my eye
|
| He don’t ask me
|
| Where i’m from
|
| Or why i came
|
| Here alone
|
| We all go looking for paradise
|
| Then we go back home
|
| We cut out the small talk
|
| Go right to the way things are
|
| He showed me his squirrel skull
|
| I told him i locked myself out of my car
|
| So there goes the only friend
|
| I have in iowa
|
| His hand flapping behind him
|
| Waving good-bye
|
| His name is jason
|
| He lives in the last trailer on the right
|
| And he’ll be seven
|
| On the fourth of july |