Roots Rock Weirdoes

[Verse 1]
The town was hardly stirrin'
The nightclubs all were closed
Only a washed-up cover band
Hittin' the stage at Joe's
The guitar hit the first bar of "Secret Agent Man"
A door in the back flew open
And into the room they ran
[Chorus 1]
Roots rock weirdoes
Up from the underground
Starved for a Tele or a B3
Any out-of-fashion sound
Roots rock weirdoes
Out of their holes they come
Dressed up like it's 1951
Yeah!
[Verse 2]
Well, they looked the band gear over
And they noted with delight
The guitar amp was a Bassman
And the bassman played upright
Well they looked round at each other
And they cried, "We are the best
For we like unpopular music
And just look at the way we're dressed!"
[Chorus 2]
Roots rock weirdoes
Slappin' each other's backs
Using the hepcat language
They thought made them sound black
Roots rock weirdoes
Smokin' their Camels straight
Makin' sure there's nothing up to date
Yeah!
[Guitar solo]
[Verse 3]
Now Joe, he was slow to anger
But that barkeep found it hard
Just to watch the air grow toxic
With smoke and self-regard
So he jumped up on a barstool
And he called out loud and clear
"I don't know just what you weirdoes want
But I don't want you in here"
The room grew deathly silent
Then up from the stinking ranks
Rose a homely social worker
In a bowling shirt marked Hank
And dropping the fake black diction
He said, "Since you inquired
Let me take stock of what we roots rock
Ahem, weirdoes desire
Fishnets for every woman
Lipstick as red as flame
For every man a tattoo
A Chevy and a dumb nickname
Cigarettes in every shirtsleeve
Black leather on every back
Fanzines in every bookstore
LPs in each record rack
Three chords in every pop song
Four white guys in each band
A ruthless media empire
To saturate this land
Then with our alt-country comrads
And our brothers in neon swing
We'll reclaim music from the kids
For our fat dead cracker king!"
[Chorus 3]
Roots rock weirdoes
Christ, they're everywhere
A little Doc Pomus in their hearts
And dark pomade in their hair
Roots rock weirdoes
Out of their holes they come
Dressed up like it's 1951
[Spoken]
I prefer your earlier work