He walk down elm street singing sunday maybe monday Parading things he never wanted For his friends He got german dog with divine right he want to fight An irish sock puppet on his hand When will it end? He stay inside most of the time in states sublime Not anxious, happy, often crazy in the head Thinks it's all pretend He waver in the changing wind stopping to begin Levetating kiddies from the floor A curse he cannot mend He stand above the crowd screaming awful sins aloud The flashing lights impair his vision Only muddling his decision About how not to save the day And who would save it anyway?