(R. Meisner, D. Henley, G. Frey) He was a poor boy, raised in a small family. He kinda had a craving for something no one else could see. They said that he was crazy, the kind that no lady should meet. He ran off to the city, and wandered around in the street. He wants to dance, oh yeah, he wants to sing. He wants to see the lights a flashin and listen to the thundering.
He saw it in the window, the mark of a new kind of man. He kinda liked the feeling, so shiny and smooth in his hand. He took it to the country, and practiced for days without rest. And then one day he found it, he knew he could stand with the best. They got respect, oh yeah, he wants the same. And it's a certain kind of fool that likes to hear the sound of his own pain.
A poster on a storefront, the picture of a wanted man. He had a reputation spreadin like fire through the land. It wasn't for the money, at least it didn't start that way. It wasn't for the runnin but now he's runnin every day.
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