Hes the kind of guy puts on a motorcycle jacket
And he weigh about a hundred and five
He's the kind of surfer got a ho-daddy haircut
And you wonder how he'll ever survive
He's the kind of frogman wearing twenty pounds of counterweights
And sinking in the sea like a stone
He's the kind of soldier got no sense of direction
And they send him in the jungle alone
But when the frost's on the pumpkin and the litle girls are jumpin'
He's a hard loving son of a gun
He's got them waiting down the stairs just to sample his affairs
And they call him a spoonful of fun
He's the kind of person going riding on a skateboard
And his mind's raging out of control
He's the kind of person goes to drive a Maserati
Puts his key inside the wrong little hole
He's the kind of ski bum tearing wild down the mountain
Hits a patch where there ain't any snow
He's the kind of cowboy got a hot trigger finger
Shoots his boot 'cause he's drawing kind of slow
But when it comes in for rolling, he's an expert at bowling
Sets the pins up and lays 'em right down
He's got them taking off their heels, and they like the way he feels
And they call him a carnival clown
He's got a parachute and screaming out "Geronimo!"
And makes a little hole in the ground
He's the kind of logger when the man hollers "Timber!"
Got to stop and look around for the sound
He's the kind of artist rents a groovy little attic
And discovers that he can't grow a beard
He's the human cannon ball come in for a landing
And he wonders where the net disappeared
But when he takes off his shoes, man, it won't come as news
He's got them lining up in threes and in twos
He's got them painting on the floor, got them begging for some more
And they call him whatever they choose.
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