He's the kind of guy puts on a motorcycle jacket
And he weighs about a hundred and five
He's the kind of surfer, got a ho-daddy haircut
And you wonder how he'll ever survive
He's the kind of frogman
Wearing twenty pounds of counter weights
And sinking in the sea like a stone
He's the kind of soldier, got no sense of direction
And they send him in the jungle alone
But when the frost's on the pumpkin
And the little girls are jumping
He's a hard loving son of a gun
He's got em waiting downstairs
Just to sample his affairs
And they call him a spoonful of fun
He's the kind of person, going riding on a skateboard
And his mind's raging out of control
He's the kind of person, goes to drive a Maserati
Puts the key inside the wrong little hole
He's the kind of ski bum tearing wild down the mountain
Hits a patch where there ain't any snow
He's the kind of cowboy, got a hot trigger finger
Shoots his boot 'cause he's drawing kind of slow
But when he comes in for bowling
He's an expert at rolling
Sets the pins up and lays 'em right down
He's got em taking off their heels
And they like the way he feels
And they call him a carnival clown
Well, he's got a parachute and screaming like Geronimo
And makes a little hole in the ground
He's the kind of logger, when the man hollers, "Timber"
Got to stop and look around for the sound
He's the kind of artist, rents a groovy little attic
And discovers that he can't grow a beard
He's the human cannonball, come in for a landing
And he wonders where the net disappeared
But when he takes off his shoes
It won't come as news
That they're lining up in threes and in twos
He's got em pounding on the door
Got 'em begging for some more
He's got 'em pounding on the door
Got 'em begging for some more
And they call him whatever they choose