| Sweating it out in my room |
| Barefoot and unbuttoned to the waist |
| The street car runs all night |
| And I can’t wait |
| So meet me down behind the abattoir |
| With the last of the summer kings |
| Meet me down at the lake |
| I said, «these waves come in from California.» |
| You said, «these waves are all brand new,» |
| And «summer is easy |
| Living in the city downtown.» |
| Thieves in the city |
| Bees in the flowerbeds |
| Kissing downtown and then the sun come up |
| In your summer dress you said |
| «a culture with shaking breath, I want it now!» |
| Well in my mouth the sun will sound |
| When that evening sun go down |
| Down to the lake, past the windmill like a fireball |
| Through your broken window |
| Down to the lake with shaking breath and the bloody owls |
| At the end of summer racket |
| You said, «tonight we can’t be held by fences or by chains.» |
| Down at the lake with a bad moon shining in the waves |