Parade Day
I intend to rain
All over your parade
Oh, the lord she works
In mysterious ways
You are the telephone
With a bone to pick
You own the dial tone
You own the words that stick
I know you'll dance
All over my grave
Oh, the lord he'll take
Everything he ever gave
You are the telephone
With a bone to pick
You own the dial tone
You own the words that stick
Once you get over it
There's nothing left to feel
I moved a long, long time ago
And it doesn't matter
Writer/s: The Daylight Savings and Loan
