Standard (EADGBE)

Vs1

 The town was hardly stirring, the night clubs all were closed

Only a washed-up cover band hittin' the stage at Joe's

 The guitar hit the first bar of "Secret Agent Man"

 A door in the back flew open, and into the room they ran!

Roots rock weirdoes, up from the underground

Starved for a Tele or a B3 -- any out-of-fashion sound

Roots rock weirdoes, out of their holes they come

Dressed up like it's 1951.

Vs2

 Well, they looked the band gear over and they noted with delight

 The guitar amp was a Bassman, and the bass man played upright

 Then they looked 'round at each other, and they cried, "We Are The Best!

 For we like unpopular music, and just look at the way we're dressed!"

Roots rock weirdoes, slapping each others' backs

Using the hepcat language they thought made them sound black

Roots rock weirdoes, smoking their Camels straight

Makin' sure there was nothing up to date.

Vs3

 Now Joe, he was slow to anger, but that barkeep found it hard

 Just to watch the air grow toxic with smoke and self-regard

 So he jumped up on a barstool and he shouted out loud and clear:

 "I don't know just what you weirdoes want, but I don't want you in here!"

Vs4

 The room grew deathly silent, then up from the stinking ranks

 Rose a homely social worker in a bowling shirt marked "Hank"

 And dropping the fake black diction, he said, "Since you enquired,

 Let me take stock of what we roots rock -- ahem! -- 'weirdoes' desire...."

Vs5

 Fishnets for every woman, and lipstick as red as flame

 For every man a tatoo, a Chevy, and a dumb nickname

 Cigarettes in every shirtsleeve, black leather on every back,

 Fanzines in every bookstore, LPs in each record rack.

Vs6

 Three chords in every pop song! Four white guys in each band!

 A ruthless media empire to saturate this land

Then, with our alt.country comrades, and our brothers in neo-swing,

 We'll reclaim music from the kids for our fat dead cracker king!"

Roots rock weirdoes, Christ! They're everywhere!

 A little Doc Pomus in their hearts and dark pomade in their hair

Roots rock weirdoes, out of their holes they come

Dressed up like it's 1951.