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Many a hand has scaled the grand old face of the plateau |
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Some belong to strangers and some to folks you know |
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Holy ghosts and talk show hosts are planted in the sand |
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To beautify the foothills and shake the many hands |
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There's nothing on the top but a bucket and a mop |
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And an illustrated book about birds |
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You see a lot up there but don't be scared |
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Who needs action when you got words |
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When you're finished with the mop then you can stop |
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And look at what you've done |
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The plateau's clean, no dirt to be seen |
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And the work it took was fun |
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Well the many hands began to scan around for the next plateau |
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Some said it was Greenland and some say Mexico |
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Others decided in was nowhere except for where they stood |
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But those were all just guesses, wouldn't help you if they could |
