Happy birthday
You're half way to sixty
You have no land of your own
A job you despise and a lover that's mean

And you started noticing a disturbing thing
Birds eating other birds just beyond the screen
So packed up your things and hopped on the freeway, headed east
And you drove for eight days aimlessly

Telling yourself to be humble
Singing yourself to be free
Being full aware that it's a middle aged crisis type thing

And you drove until you saw a sign for a town called Luckey
Spelled L-U-C-K-E-Y
Where the sugar towers rise to line and meet the streets
Checked into a motel, slept on cardboard sheets
That covered the blood-stained matress underneath
Went to the local bar and you got yourself a drink

Telling yourself to be humble
Singing yourself to be free
It's a middle aged crisis type thing

It was the most rag-tag group you had ever seen
A splendid man witha moustache on both sides, nothing in-between
Looking like a preachers son who had given into the devil-worshipping scene
He was a real looker and he bought you a drink
And you proceeded to tell him everything
And you were getting a bit hysterical it seemed
And you laughed like a carburetor, and then you screamed
All the doubt and the disbelief

Telling yourself to be humble
Singing yourself to be free
It's a middle aged crisis type thing

And he told you how he came to be
As an altar boy by his father's knees
And how he came to lose his faith
There was no touching but advances were made
And his father's hand in slow motion was approaching him
And the doubt and disbelief crept over his young heart like the black ocean

A storm cloud a hurricane if you will
A storm cloud a hurricane

Telling yourself to be humble
Singing yourself to be free
It's a middle aged crisis type thing

Go home lady, find yourself happy
It's just a middle aged crisis type thing
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
It's a middle aged crisis type thing
It's a middle aged crisis type thing