@migu music@

Hard Loving Loser - Mimi And Richard Farina

Written by：Richard Farina

He's the kind of guy

Puts on a motorcycle jacket

And he weighs about

A hundred and five

He's the kind of surfer

Got a ho daddy haircut

And you wonder how

He'll ever survive

He's the kind of frogman

Wearing twenty pounds

Of counter weights and

Sinking in the sea like a stone

He's the kind of soldier

Got no sense of direction

And they send him

In the jungle alone

But when the frost's on the pumpkin

And the little girls are jumping

He's a hard loving son of a gun

He's got 'em waiting downstairs

Just to sample his affairs

And they call him a spoonful of fun

He's the kind of person

Going riding on a skateboard

And his mind's raging out of control

He's the kind of person

Goes to drive a maserati

Puts his key inside the wrong little hole

He's the kind of ski bum

Tearing wild down the mountain

Hits a patch where there ain't any snow

He's the kind of cowboy

Got a hot trigger finger

Shoots his boot cause he's drawing kind of slow

When he comes in for bowling

He's an expert at rolling

Sets the pins up and lays 'em right down

He's got 'em taking off their heels

And they like the way he feels

And they call him a carnival clown

He's got a parachute

He's screaming like geronimo

And makes a little hole in the ground

He's the kind of logger

When the man hollers timber

Has to stop and look around for the sound

He's the kind of artist rents a groovy little attic

And discovers that he can't grow a beard

He's the human cannonball

Come in for a landing

And he wonders where the net disappeared

He takes off his shoes

Man it won't come as news

That they're lining up on threes and in twos

He's got 'em pounding on the door

Got 'em begging for some more

And they call him whatever they choose

He's the kind of guy

Puts on a motorcycle jacket

And he weighs about

A hundred and five

He's the kind of surfer

Got a ho daddy haircut

And you wonder how

He'll ever survive

He's the kind of frogman

Wearing twenty pounds

Of counter weights and

Sinking in the sea like a stone

He's the kind of soldier

Got no sense of direction

And they send him

In the jungle alone

When the frost's on the pumpkin

And the little girls are jumping

He's a hard loving son of a gun

He's got 'em waiting downstairs

Just to sample his affairs

And they call him a spoonful of fun