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The sweet pretty things are in bed now, of course |
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The city fathers they're trying to endorse |
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The reincarnation of Paul Revere's horse |
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But the town has no need to be nervous |
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The ghost of Belle Starr, she hands down her wits |
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To Jezebel, the nun, she violently knits |
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A bald wig for Jack, the ripper, who sits |
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At the head of the chamber of commerce |
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Mama's in the factory, she ain't got no shoes |
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Daddy's in the alley, he's lookin' for food |
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And I'm in the kitchen with the tombstone blues |
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The hysterical bride in the penny arcade |
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Screaming she moans, "I've just been made" |
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Then sends out for the doctor who pulls down the shade |
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And says, "My advice is to not let the boys in" |
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Now, the medicine man comes and he shuffles inside |
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He walks with a swagger and he says to the bride |
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"Stop all that weeping and swallow your pride |
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You will not die, it's not poison" |
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Well John, the Baptist, after torturing a thief |
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Looks up at his hero, the Commander-in-Chief |
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Saying, "Tell me great hero but please make it brief |
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Is there a hole for me to get sick in?" |
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Mama's in the factory, she ain't got no shoes |
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Daddy's in the alley, he's lookin' for food |
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And I'm in the kitchen with the tombstone blues |
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The Commander-in-Chief answers him while chasing a fly |
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Saying, "Death to all those who would whimper and cry" |
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And dropping a bar bell, he points to the sky |
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Saying, "The sun's not yellow, it's chicken" |
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The king of the Philistines, his soldiers to save |
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Put jawbones on their tombstones and flatters their graves |
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Put the pied pipers in prison and fattens the slaves |
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Then sends them out to the jungle |
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Gypsy Davey with a blowtorch, he burns out their camps |
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With his faithful slave Pedro behind him, he tramps |
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With a fantastic collection of stamps |
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To win friends and influence his uncle |
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Mama's in the factory, she ain't got no shoes |
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Daddy's in the alley, he's lookin' for food |
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And I'm in the kitchen with the tombstone blues |
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The geometry of innocence, flesh on the bone |
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Causes Galileo's math book to get thrown |
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At Delilah, who's sits worthlessly alone |
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But the tears on her cheeks are from laughter |
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Now, I wish I could give Brother Bill his great thrill |
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I would set him in chains at the top of the hill |
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Then send out for some pillars and Cecil B. DeMille |
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He could die happily ever after |
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Mama's in the factory, she ain't got no shoes |
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Daddy's in the alley, he's lookin' for food |
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And I'm in the kitchen with the tombstone blues |
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Where Ma Raney and Beethoven once unwrapped their bed roll |
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Tuba players will now rehearse around the flagpole |
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And the National Bank for a profit, sells road maps for the soul |
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To the old folks, home and the college |
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Now, I wish I could write you a melody so plain |
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That could hold you dear lady from going insane |
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That could ease you and cool you and cease the pain |
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Of your useless and pointless knowledge |
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Mama's in the factory, she ain't got no shoes |
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Daddy's in the alley, he's lookin' for food |
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And I'm in the kitchen with the tombstone blues |
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Got the tombstone blues |
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Tombstone blues |
