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The coffee beanery was about to explode |
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Or was it a field |
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Nobody knows |
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Nobody saw it coming |
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But for days |
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The forecast predicted frost |
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The TV's radiated ice |
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The Toyota became a baked Alaska |
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And if we took out our spoons |
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The windshield wipers scraping beneath |
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A little work for dessert |
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If every course would put up a good fight first |
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All that you build will probably fall someday |
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Then you'll be left with only Polaroids |
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So, what I want to know is when the sky caves in |
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Who's gonna pick up the pieces then |
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The signs, they were all there before |
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A blink of barrette the waves crashing down on the colonials |
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Everybody said 'don't get caught, darling, you gonna end up in a Folgers tin' |
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But even they liked the storm |
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And they drive me batty when they say things like that |
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'Cause you know I've heard the stories, too |
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Oh I've heard the wives' tale |
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Where Polly at a load of stale reunion bread |
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And got killed by one of her seven Siamese cats |
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Never did want an American short-hair 'cause they've got bones to pick |
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All that you build will probably fall someday |
|
Then you'll be left with only Polaroids |
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So, what I want to know is when the sky caves in |
|
Who's gonna pick up the pieces then |
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I had a dream about Helena where she was strumming her cello like it was a banjo |
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We got drunk and danced in the sand dunes 'till she said |
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'Why don't we go and see about that parade?' |
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And James with his beard which is down to his knees, is |
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Probably in Asia chewing on a coil of ginseng and he's |
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Writing me every week about the big beautiful world |
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I kind of want to be a part of it. |
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All that you build will probably fall someday |
|
Then you'll be left with only Polaroids |
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So, what I want to know is when the sky caves in |
|
Who's gonna pick up the pieces then |
