Song parody of
Maybe I Should Drive
by The Trash Can Sinatras
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i'm on a be road heading for the sea
to see if hands across the ocean
shake or wave
(see if hands across the ocean
shake or wave)
through the whiplash of the windscreen wipers
i can see for miles
but all i do is watch the time
(i can see for miles
but all i see's the driver's hands)
he harbours thoughts on personal grief
i said your hardship's
only one of a fleet
that didn't go down well
listen son if you'd spent
your life in the last lane
you would have an accent to grind
punch-drunk on patriotism
blind-drunk on borderism
maybe i should drive
and while you're castaway
the mice'll play
they'll have a license
to dull those left back home
what about those poor souls?
listen son if you'd spent
your life in the last lane
you would have an accent to grind
punch-drunk on patriotism
blind-drunk on borderism
maybe i should drive
and as i jumped to these conclusions
he thumped his feet on the brakes
but we still hit a songwriter
trudging through the rain
scrambled out and watched him
rest in pieces
said a prayer and rifled
through his pockets
and the side of his mouth
still had something to say
at the toss of a coin
i end up head in the dirt
and tail in the air
and yet you can dance away
but be it friend or hard-up-man
fellow or kin
when your chips are down
they're down for good
i'm on a be road heading for the sea
to see if hands across the ocean
shake or wave
(see if hands across the ocean
shake or wave)
through the whiplash of the windscreen wipers
i can see for miles
but all i do is watch the time
(i can see for miles
but all i see's the driver's hands)
he harbours thoughts on personal grief
i said your hardship's
only one of a fleet
that didn't go down well
listen son if you'd spent
your life in the last lane
you would have an accent to grind
punch-drunk on patriotism
blind-drunk on borderism
maybe i should drive
and while you're castaway
the mice'll play
they'll have a license
to dull those left back home
what about those poor souls?
listen son if you'd spent
your life in the last lane
you would have an accent to grind
punch-drunk on patriotism
blind-drunk on borderism
maybe i should drive
and as i jumped to these conclusions
he thumped his feet on the brakes
but we still hit a songwriter
trudging through the rain
scrambled out and watched him
rest in pieces
said a prayer and rifled
through his pockets
and the side of his mouth
still had something to say
at the toss of a coin
i end up head in the dirt
and tail in the air
and yet you can dance away
but be it friend or hard-up-man
fellow or kin
when your chips are down
they're down for good
