Thunderbird
U.Zarum
International Copyright 2004-2009 Zarum MuZic Inc.
All Rights Reserved
His living room’s a bus stop
In downtown New Orleans
His Kitchen’s VJ’s Liquor Store
His Bedroom’s behind
A gas station
Where he usually wakes up
Around four
His name is Thunderbird
Or so he say’s
Said he got his name
From his favorite bottle of wine
He hobbles on his metal leg
As he chases
Imaginary people down the street
It’s been sixteen years
Since he lost that leg
While sleeping by the railroad tracks
He makes his living
By collecting scrap metal
Carries it home in old potato sacks
Crowded streets are his home
But he’s always alone
Storefront windows he says
Reflect all his woes
So he walks down the alleys
Cause cinder blocks tell good lies
Oh they tell good lies
He makes two or three
Dollars a day
Spends it on cigarettes and wine
Half way through the bottle
He begins to talk
To imaginary people
But you know, you know, you know
He’s all right