Oh pedaling is hard, move fast as I can go,
The basket of my bicycle is hanging low,
It's filled with things that I am bringing to your house.
You said some strange things on the phone,
I wanna know what they're about.
When I get there you are done.

Your things in boxes on your lawn
And all the books you ever read, are stacked upon your steps
Instead of in your room and all your shoes
Are [bad word] out on your neighbor's fence.
Among all this I find a note addressed to me, it says:
"I'm leaving this place; not by choice it's my fate.
I don't wanna hurt you, not tryin' to desert you
Some people just weren't cut out for this race."

Get back on my bicycle, I'm moving slow
Never thought I'd realize the type of things [bad word] to know
Some people just weren't cut out for this type of life
To end up like their fathers with a house, a dog, two kids, a wife.
The pressures of society are bound to get to you.

I guess I'll have to let him go.
Oh I guess I'll cut him loose.
Ooohhh...