My big brother rode an Indian Scout, it was black like his jacket, American spirit hangin' out of his mouth, just like our daddy. He kick-started that bike one night and broke momma's heart, he pointed that head a light west, out where the wild things are. He'd call me up every couple of weeks, from South California, talk about the desert and the Joshua Tree, his pretty girl stories, and how he bought an Airstream trailer and a J-45 guitar, said little brother you love it out here, out where the wild things are. Oh, it's hearts on fire and crazy dreams, oh, the nights ignite like gasoline, and light up those streets that never sleep, when the sky goes dark, out where the wild things are. I called my brother from the back of that plane, the second I made it, we started drinkin' on the strip in L.A., and it got crazy, ended up at a house in the hills with some Hollywood stars, kissin' on a blonde in a backyard pool, out where the wild things are. I loved the white horse rebels, wild as the devil, I knew if I had to move back east, said goodbye to my brother at the end of that summer, but I knew he'd never leave. Oh, it's hearts on fire and crazy dreams, oh, the nights ignite like gasoline, oh, them Indian scoutsmen, they're built for speed, and oh, they said he hit that guard rail at half past three, and lit up those streets that never sleep, when the sky goes dark, we buried him out in the wind, neath the west coast stars, out where the wild things are, out where the wild things are. Out where the wild things are.