Taco, Buffalo, Birddog and Jesus
Taking me out over the sea
I'll be kind enough to read in their guidebook
The hairiest thing we'd agree

They'd been driving a pickup from Plymouth
To make up for the holes in their jeans
As they whistled the spirits above them
The circus matures beneath

Irrepressible flockings of peoples
Winks at the others he knows
But the ones who are left here are nice people
Into the black smoking hole

Nobody opens his eyes
It's hard to look up in the sun
And so they shove them along

In the cross hairs of the apple
Something will carry us along
Makes a hell of a breakfast Sunday
And stays till the boat swings along

Nobody opens his eyes
It's hard to look up in the sun
And so they shove them along

Beyond the bars and earth of the mid-western factory towns
Evil minds click consistently
Some of us think it odd that a large percentage of bona-fide miracles were witnessed here today
But I've seen Taco take a big long drag off his self-whittled pipe
And sit back and laugh
As the imminent rednecks hugging and buying each other drinks
And then Jesus blows the clouds away with one puff
Crawls back into his cage and goes to sleep

Taco, Buffalo, Birddog and Jesus
Are chasing the eyeball to see
I'll be kind enough to read in their guidebook
The hairiest thing we'd agree

Nobody opens his eyes
It's hard to look up in the sun
And so they shove them along