What’s that smell mama, rotten smoke? Somebody might of stepped in a dirty joke, maybe the Orphan. His laughter comes out like a telescope. The folks all fear his lack of hope and his crossed-vision. He says, “I don’t exist but that don’t stop me”. I’ve seen him hanging round impatiently in forgotten shadows with his boots on and his head bowed…his family photographs spread out loud. The resemblance, undeniable, seems unbearable sometimes…so put your boots on.

He hears you bragging about the fire you stole and a gadget you’ve devised to control heebie-jeebies. Well you can save it for the judge…you can save it for the judge. If your leftovers keep don’t eat them in your sleep without dreaming…and with your boots on and your head bowed…your family photographs spread out loud. The resemblance, undeniable, seems unbearable sometimes…so put your boots on.

Standing alone in his very own line…the palm readers say he’s got too much time on his hands. Mama Mama does he ever go home? No, baby no…no shelter from the storm that he’s breathing…with his boots on and his head bowed…his family photographs spread out loud. The resemblance, undeniable, seems unbearable sometimes…so put your boots on.

Put your boots on…put your boots on…