We're both locked up in prisons.
Each of our own device.
You're successful in the suburbs.
I'm a bum in paradise.

You must maintain a style.
Gotta keep those meters fed
Though you go the extra mile
you stay buried in the red.

I live without a worry.
Loose and fancy free.
You're always in  a hurry.
In need of therapy.

I got it made in the shade.
Own a Cannondale bike.
They repossessed your Escalade.
Your union's out on strike.

Must be a real bummer
shovelling snow in May.
It's like the middle of the summer here.
Every day.

Your mother's always ranting.
The kids are hooked on junk.
Your wife?
She's shitfaced.
Panting.
Drunker than a skunk.

I'm surrounded by hot women.
A secluded private beach.
Sunning.
Surfing.
Swimming.
I don't mean to preach

But man, if I were you
I'd heed this little speech.
Bid that city life adieu.
Salvation's within reach.

It might take a crazy stunt.
That web we weave is strong
but it's always time to punt
when it's fourth and long.

You can't always hit a homer
or lay down the perfect bunt,
but every beachcomber
relishes the hunt

for the choicest secret herbs
to flavor beans and rice.
I say, "Screw the suburbs.
Be a bum in paradise."