This is called Tell Me When the Whistle Blows.
There's a dusty old girl lying in a nap
with a plow and a sword.
And there's a bottle that rolled down the road.
Me, I'm young and I'm so wild.
And I still feel the need
of your apron string going on and on.
And I'm waiting a while
for that taxi guy for a cousin.
And I can't be fooling loose forever.
My suitcase is the cheap one.
My dog, she's the dear one.
And my head's feeling light
as a feather.
Wake me up,
tell me when the whistle blows.
Take my heels,
tell me when the whistle blows.
Lonely boy, just a black sheep going home.
I want to feel your wheels out still.
I'm going to need my hitchhike heels.
Take my money,
tell me when the whistle blows.
Tell me when the whistle blows.
Do concern, he said, nine.
Not so bad, but I really do love the land.
I'd rather have a stamp of diamond lover in the high park
holding hand.
Trying to kill off this cold.
Well, the street kids will remember.
You can't still shoot a fast cue.
I just turned three, four, still got a soul.
Take my heels,
tell me when the whistle blows.
Wake me up,
tell me when the whistle blows.
Lonely boy, just a black sheep going home.
I want to feel your wheels out still.
I'm going to need my hitchhike heels.
Take my money,
tell
me when the whistle blows.