Happy birthday, you're halfway to 60
You have no land of your own
A job you despise
And a lover that's means
And you started noticing a disturbing thing
Birds eating other birds just beyond the screams
So you packed up your things and hopped on the freeway headed east
And you drove for eight days aimlessly
Telling yourself to humble
Singing to yourself to be free
Being full aware that it's a middle aged crisis type thing
And you drove 'til you saw a sign for a town called Luckey
Spelled L-U-C-K-E-Y
Where the sugar towers rise til the line and meet the streets
Shanked into a motel, slipped on cardboard sheets
I covered the bloodstained matress underneath
Went to the local bar and you got yourself a drink
Telling yourself to humble
Singing to yourself to be free
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
It was the most ragtag group you had ever seen
A slender man with a moustache, a bowsize and nothing between
Looking like a preacher son who had given in the devil-worshipping scene
He was a real looker and he bought you a drink
And you proceeded to tell him everything
And you getting a bit hysterical it seemed
You laughed like a carburettor then you screamed
Oh the doubt and the disbelief
Telling yourself to humble
Singing to yourself to be free
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
And he told you how he came to be
As an alterboy by his father's knees
And how he came to lose his faith
There was no touching but advances were made
And his father's hand in slow motion it was approaching him
And the doubt and disbelief crept over his young heart like the black ocean
A stormcloud, a hurricane if you will
A stormcloud, a hurricane
Telling yourself to humble
Singing to yourself to be free
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
Go home lady, find yourself happy
It's just a middle aged crisis type thing
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
