The white-sun gaze is fixed upon the town of Missingself
A village-city named by and for a corpse of winsome wealth
Who in the days before his death was known for hate and spite
But now endowed is all the town with his money and foresight
Distraught and unromantic, the people fought with iron fists
And left their children all alone to speak the alphabet
This generation sadly was raised by the television screen
And cast away from their parents' love, were seen as quite obscene
Inward and introverted, they were soon hurled to the world
Supposedly grown-up and whole but really boys and girls

The Trombone Sailor tramp of trails was first to leave his post
He owed to much for too long and meant to see the coast
Off the cliff of dead-end dreams he had hoped for a silver coat
To impress all of the city girls and return with one to gloat
But as he crossed the country with the answers in his hands
He constantly ignored himself and made severe demands
Upon the people of the shores and the mermaids swimming by
Who helped him to mistake his arms for clouds of smog and lye
And so with fervor and with faith he bought a big red truck
Hoping to rebrand himself as a rambling, roaming buck

Spiders crawl beneath the tears of Mistress Morose herself
Whose pain is only half sincere and whose mind is without health
Hope is her secret poison and her weapon gas of choice
She drains the life from all she loves and then she steals their voice
Her blood burns through the daydrops of the open pool of fate
And she captures with her words of love any fool who will wait
Long enough to seem sincere but is short enough to see
Only what she wants them to as she brings them to her knee
Who knows what she seeks? Not I, and certainly neither her
As she wraps her endless empty nights within her ballroom fur

Johnny Jailbreak screams his tantrums into the breath-break machine
Proving to the highway cop that he isn't unfit to drink
But on the brink of danger and feeding his doorknob death
He writes silly songs about love and life and knows that nothing's left
For him to free and him to like or for him to even touch
But his basket tongue and basset lungs are pounding far too much
And so his hands are shaking and his silence pulse is true
As he fills his socks with all he knows and puts on his silverside shoes
And as his satin bedroom eyes are battered by the barroom beer
He eats his problem glass shard life and smiles through the cheers

Ah, look at the queen in the corner named Ladybird Marie
She keeps her twittered twists of hair inside her tawny sleeves
Rubies drip from her lips as she sways her gypsy dream hips
Her voice is like a crowing car as her fingernails she clips
She has to keep her wits about her when she walks at night
For though she is quite well-to-do, she always has to fight
Against the demons of her soul that burst across her face
Whenever someone makes her out and mistakes her sad disgrace
For a window to her soul when it is a painted porcelain mask
A mating song she learned to sing so she never had to ask

The Liar holds an ocean inside of his domino cup
He hates the world he lives in so he decides to make one up
A baby born in winter, a wife that has left him, sure
The means and ends are all confused and broken on the curb
His wooden nose and highland doom is a curse of his happy parade
As he digs his grave on Pleasure Island and kills his red charade
His crusade, as he would tell it, was to unite all the people abroad
And cancel all his parents' credit cards to save them from distraught
But as his fiction and his faith are washed onto the beach
He secretly destroys his myths and tears his bedroom sheets

There's a man named Wilson Warmen who holds all the records and more
For picking up the broken lives of the women on the dance floor
His secret, or his sanctum, is a pair of lucky wooden dice
They scatter chance and portray his luck to men as well as mice
Upon the marble-makeshift mansions of the masters and the priests
He holds his ears and seeks his peace through honest-eyed deceit
Although he knows his fortune is a briar patch of iron teeth
He brags about his fashion sense and relies upon mystique
For although he holds no skill to which he can call his own
Nobody in the village square can claim his rightful throne

In the alleys is the Poet Who Dreams of a fire-lit cruise
His swirling patterns of despair are a blessing and a ruse
Though he peddles books of brilliance from his battered cart
He has a banker for his brain and a locksmith for his heart
Beneath his smirk and open chest is a coldness none can know
Born alone in ancient times and buried deep in the snow
He bought a gold harmonica and an electric jam guitar
But he only knows how to play the tape-deck in his car
And as his heartbreak bricks of dawn are spilled onto the street
Everyone that he has ever known begins to laugh at his defeat

Imagine Todd Lambert, the banker-briefer of the tolling booth
He prays to painted pictures and a melted golden tooth
Though he wishes to write tickets to his friends for mistrust
He settles for a wedding ring to embrace his inner lust
Though he knows not who to wed, he begins his solemn-eyed quest
Of ruining the fun of all and by brushing against her breast
Perhaps he could have waited, perhaps he should have withdrawn
But nobody else in all the town would even listen to his song
So with pen and paper, he begins to write his will anew
Leaving all his possessions to a woman that he never knew

What causes all these conflicts? What keeps these souls so discontent?
What encourages their friendships and leaves their lives so sadly spent?
Who can say for certain? It requires too much disdain
You would have to spend your time with them and soon would go insane
The truth, it seems, as sad and lonely as it spills onto the page
Is that none of these adult children are worth their daily wage
In time they may spring to life and heal their wounded hearts
And seek the love of themselves and replace their broken parts
But as sure as fire breathes their names and sparks in a hissing hell
They will never find their happiness in the streets of Missingself