The Art of Zarum

Original Lyrics



International Copyright

All Rights Reserved 


His living room’s a bus stop 

In downtown New Orleans 

His Kitchen’s VJ’s Liquor Store 

His Bedroom’s behind 

A gas station 

Where he usually wakes up 

Around four 


His name is Thunderbird 

Or so he say’s 

Said he got his name 

From his favorite bottle of wine 

He hobbles on his metal leg 

As he chases 

Imaginary people down the street 


It’s been sixteen years 

Since he lost that leg 

While sleeping by the railroad tracks 

He makes his living 

By collecting scrap metal 

Carries it home in old potato sacks 


Crowded streets are his home 

But he’s always alone 

Storefront windows he says 

Reflect all his woes 

So he walks down the alleys 

Cause cinder blocks tell good lies 

Oh they tell good lies 


He makes two or three 

Dollars a day 

Spends it on cigarettes and wine 

Half way through the bottle 

He begins to talk 

To imaginary people 

But you know, you know, you know 

He’s all right