He gets up every morning And he lights upon the floor He migrates to the washroom And he opens up the door
The whiskers on his chin tells him He's in, and then Through the paste and the soap Sees an image without hope
He's a broom of a fellow An oddity in parenthesis So infected with disease of yellow dirt Down in his soul
He usually spends his spare time Counting hairs upon his arm The ants upon the cupboard To his thinking add their charm
He never starts to notice That his shoes are full of lead He's dead, through cough labored breathing He is seething
He's a sandwich of a fellow An all spread personality So infected with disease of yellow dirt Down in his soul
Last night a thousand stars were his To mold like clay, and so In one split seconds anger He did reach and take a hold
He saw himself a captain way Off in some kissin' situation That would have made his father proud He laughs out loud
He conceals the hurt, he reveals the dirt The yellow dirt down in his soul The yellow dirt down in his soul The yellow dirt down in his soul The yellow dirt down in his soulTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
