Mister Wrench
Lyrics
Intro
Mister Wrench got a toolbox full of mystery parts,
Two left shoes and a map of the discount marts.
He says, “I’m fixing this toaster, then I’m fixing my life”—
The toaster’s in a shopping cart, rolling downhill tonight.
Verse 1
He’s posted by the market with a cardboard sign,
“Got a dime for a dream and a nickel for time?”
He asks every shopper, then he asks the cart,
The cart says nothing, but it’s got a wonky wheel to start.
He spots a bike by the fence, makes a fast little grab,
Gets three feet down the block—flat tires, instant cab.
Now he’s walking that bike like it owes him rent,
One hand on the handlebars, the other on a bent wrench.
He’s got a screwdriver, a spoon, and a bolt from a chair,
Says, “I’ll have this thing running by the time I get there.”
But “there” keeps moving, and the sun drops low,
He’s still tightening one screw while the loose ones go.
He borrows a bucket, then he borrows a rag,
Then he borrows somebody’s sandwich—wrong kind of swag.
He’s chasing that next hit with a plan made of string,
And a shopping cart rattling like a one-man parade band.
Pre-Chorus
“Just one more fix,” he says, “then I’m heading back.”
He’s got six half-fixed gadgets and a shopping bag.
He makes a bold promise, then he loses the thread—
Now he’s asking the traffic cone for a place to sleep instead.
Chorus
Tweak, tweak, tinkering, chasing that spark,
Begging for change while he’s fixing in the dark.
Stolen bike, flat tire, cart rolls away—
He’ll be right back, he just can’t say what day.
“Got a little spare?” “Got a bolt that fits?”
He’s got seventeen projects and he finished none of it.
Tweak, tweak, tinkering, round and round the block—
He’s chasing that next hit, but he can’t find his sock.
Verse 2
He’s under the awning when the store lights dim,
Trying to fix a broken clock with a garden rake handle and a hymn.
He says, “Time is money,” then he checks his watch—
It’s missing the hands, and the strap’s got a notch.
He’s up all night with a lamp that won’t shine,
A radio that only picks up one weather line.
“Tomorrow I’ll finish,” he tells the old cart,
The cart’s got a squeaky wheel and a shopping list heart.
He asks for spare change with a salesman’s grin,
Then trades it for a tool that won’t turn the pin.
He snags a bike, pedals hard, gets nowhere fast—
Flat tires front and back, and the chain’s in the grass.
He pushes it proudly like a parade marshal king,
While the cart rolls behind him with a saucepan that sings.
He’s got one sock, two gloves, and a pocket of screws,
A screwdriver stuck in his hat like a flag for the news.
Chorus
Tweak, tweak, tinkering, chasing that spark,
Begging for change while he’s fixing in the dark.
Stolen bike, flat tire, cart rolls away—
He’ll be right back, he just can’t say what day.
“Got a little spare?” “Got a bolt that fits?”
He’s got seventeen projects and he finished none of it.
Tweak, tweak, tinkering, round and round the block—
He’s chasing that next hit, but he can’t find his sock.
Verse 3
At the corner he’s pitching his latest invention:
A self-stirring soup can with a bicycle tension.
He’s got a wrench for a handle, a lid for a bell,
And a shopping cart horn that sounds like a duck in a well.
He asks a passerby, “Could you spare me a quarter?”
Then points to his bike like it’s his chauffeur’s daughter.
The bike won’t roll, so he walks it with flair,
Like a king pulling luggage through the open-air fair.
He’s got parts from a toaster, a lamp, and a fan,
He’ll build a whole spaceship—well, that’s the plan.
But the bolts don’t match and the wheels all lean,
And the cart’s got a traffic cone tucked in between.
“Next hit, next fix,” is the tune in his head,
He’s bargaining with a mailbox, then nodding instead.
He keeps saying “I’m close,” while the screws disappear—
The only thing finished is the snack he found near.
Bridge
One wheel squeaks, one wheel wobbles,
Three loose bolts and twice the troubles.
He says, “I’ve got this,” with a confident nod—
Then his toolbox spills out like a tiny metal god.
The bike stays parked; the cart takes a bow,
He’s still got that toaster—and it’s warm somehow.
Final Chorus
Tweak, tweak, tinkering, chasing that spark,
Begging for change while he’s fixing in the dark.
Stolen bike, flat tire, cart rolls away—
He’ll be right back, he just can’t say what day.
“Got a little spare?” “Got a bolt that fits?”
He’s got seventeen projects and he finished none of it.
Tweak, tweak, tinkering, round and round the block—
He’s chasing that next hit, but he can’t find his sock.
Outro
“Tomorrow I’ll finish,” he says with a grin.
The cart rolls off. He chases it again.
One flat tire, one loose screw, one last little fix—
And the corner’s still waiting for Mister Wrench’s next trick.