Words and music by Scott Martin and Maurice Adams
These freaky wacked-out people keep on knocking on my door
I’m hiding in my bedroom, I can’t take it anymore
They won’t leave me alone, the refuse to go away
I can’t stand to be surrounded by them for another day
Oh no
There’s just something about them I can’t put my finger on
So pale and so neurotic, I just wish that they were gone
Their histrionic voices have me climbing up the walls
I’ve unplugged my telephone just in case one of them calls
Oh no
At the supermarket or the local shopping mall
The bar where I hang out sucking down the alcohol
I don’t think there’s anyone as sane and straight as me
But I’m trapped with this secret
That’s the funky irony
These freaky wacked-out people, well they’re driving me insane
I see them on the Tee Vee, I can feel them in my brain
I’ve boarded up my windows but I still don’t feel secure
‘Cuz these freaky wacked-out people keep on knocking on my door
Oh no