Shake off your prayer shawl, mama, good times are at hand, Let’s give these blues a rockin’ reprimand. If the sky falls this evening, if the planets collide, That still ain’t no argument to stay inside. I got a groove jones lately, hope you feel the same. To much still life inside of too much frame. You be my Bonnie, I will be your Clyde, Come on, the motor’s running and your shoes ain’t tied. CHORUS I’m rockin’ tonight. Come along, I do invite ya, baby, I’m rockin’ tonight, Rock along until you see the light. On a full moon, mama, everybody knows, The proper wolfman go no mind to doze. I ain’t no gypsy but I sure ain’t wrong, I predict they’re gonna play our song. You hear the band van scapin’ up against the curb, We’re takin’ down that sign that say Do Not Disturb. Smokey’s on the jukebox, Pickett is too, You think that ain’t soul food, you ain’t got a clue. CHORUS It’s after midnight, mama, the walls are drippin’ sweat. I’m here to say we ain’t but started yet. The band is shiftin’ up into the Zone. The next heartbeat you hear will be your own. We’ll get some sleep come sunrise, ask me if I care. Our only clock is when they pop that snare. Can’t hang around and bang the drum all day. So bang it now and we can shake the clay. CHORUS

The decree, little man, has come down from the top. Poison is good to the very last drop. There’s some debate over hate, but the pedestaled minds feel, discretely deployed, it may correct what it binds. Every shift of the wind bears the whiff of a lie, Like trickle down fortune, like Arbeit Macht Frei. It’s supersized bullshit that confides with a hiss, That relative ignorance is relative bliss. And the song of deceits seeks a gullible tongue to survive, So when the strike up the band and expect you to stand, please Don’t go repeating that jive that you hear out on Madhouse Drive. The idea, little man, is to blind you to right. Which is known to promote the fine focus of sight. A small cog puts a fog on a rose-colored lens. And the trojans roll in in a Mercedes Benz, Then nationhood’s lauded and ancestors praised, And the stripes presumed sponsored by heaven are raise. They’ll unroll the parchment, pronounce the brave words, And the ones with a taste will want seconds and thirds. It’s a round-the-clock gig, man, don’t think they knock off at five… But though they harness their lungs to their overtime tongues, It’ll take more than song to revive, all the fools out on Madhouse Drive. In end, little man, if the end ever comes, They’ll be slogan and jargon and military drums. A most-wanted poster for every saint, And passive and non-passive forms of restraint. The machine’s out of order, the map has been lost. The oxygen mask is hooked up to the exhaust. It’s a winnable war if you game’s dirty poker, It’s a brilliant sick joke but who knows the joker. As paper airplanes have no brains to pull out of a dive… You may stall the decline, but the rot’s in the vine, There’s no honey at all in the hive, that we made out on Madhouse Drive.