I thought you were Bob Dylan,
Until you started singing,
Where’s my hands to grow?
Run off down the road
I’ve got a place that maybe you can stay at,
Just round the corner if we make it to the border,
There’s juice in the oven and fire in the cupboard,
A little bit of damp but a whole-lotta-loving,
And dog is on the wind-shield shielding no thrills,
When your mother hit the water she didn’t mean to,
Dancing on the table fighting Cain and Able,
Leave it on the mantle-side until you see your father cry
Where’s my hands to grow?
Run off down the road…
And I thought you were Bob Dylan
Until you started singing,
Where’s my hands to grow?
Run off down the road