The Finest Joke Is upon Us
Mother, feeling your hand I
Believe you and I did then
And mother, release every bad seed
The geese are leaving the trees
Exposed to winter's cold
They waited too long
But we too exaggerated
And I take the cake away
It's a long song
And I can play it so
Give me a pick now collector of bones
Words of smoke
Distorted, never broken
Paradise is open but I choke
One of these days when I see through the smoke
That'll be the day I get the joke
Autor(es): Robert Pollard
