Last night they done caught me, trying to direct my dreams. I had one where I was writing a book called “Tree Street,” where a Man from outer space came and vanished, without a trace. I’d based it on this old unexplained crime involving two good ol’ boys who’d seen this strange dude near their ice cream van. He appears one night on Elm & Oak Street, strutting proud, like a hard-up hen clucking loud in his barred-up pen.
They sauntered up slow, saying, “Stranger? Somethin’ wrong?”

See, every flick of his wrists was just a cry for sugar, and every lick of his lips meant “My Throat Is Dry!” And every tick of his eye meant “Heavens help me!”
And in an ice cream van they made our Spaceman cry.

They said “Mister, you don’t come from round here, do ya?”
“Look here, Mister, gonna call you Miss. Understood?!”
“Ain’t that you neath the mission bell?”
“Ain’t you cruisin’ the wishing well?”
“Just who do you think you are?”
“You gettin’ scared? Am I sending chills all over your body?”

Every flick of his wrists was just a cry for sugar, and every lick of his lips meant “My Throat Is Dry!” And every tick of his eye meant “Heavens help me!”
And in an ice cream van they made our Spaceman cry.