The light of the burning cross over the wave – 
It keeps calling me back from the social grave. 
Turn around, heading to the new bounds, 
Drifting with the flow. 
I’m on my way. 
We’re riding low. 

The lines in the sands of the San Fran bay – 
They tell the [bad word] about getting away. 
Turn around, heading to the new bounds. 
And [bad word] to my show. 
Oh don’t you feel? 
We’re riding low.