It is a morning of hot coffee, cold stares and romancing facts

Conflicts, cornflakes and ridiculous balancing acts

Accusations and rejections

Like an ‘Eisteddfod’ of objections

No one here is perfect and neither of us purists

But sometimes it seems like we both act like tourists

It is an afternoon of soccer-dads, gushing and rushing

Kits washed and pressed; everybody fussing and pushing

Angry yells at the play

Can’t afford to lose here today

I look at my boy and realize he don’t wanna do this

All those parents on the touchline acting like tourists

I met a girl on the way home, speaking in palindromes,

“Was it a rat I saw?” she cried

Took me a moment to figure it out

“Never odd or even” I replied.

It is a night of catfish cooked on an open fire

Teenagers on the beach getting higher and higher

Some kid with a guitar wearing a pineapple shirt

Singing his songs like he was some kind of life expert

Me? I gaze at the stars like some intellectual futurist

But I guess that night I was just another tourist

I guess sometimes we all act like tourists.