American Pie

They showed it
A hundred times maybe
Right on every hour

Like some great black bird
Come to pick at the pie

And they come down
Them stacks of chimneys
They come down
Right on every hour

Those sad fat clerks
Waiting out their fate
Them junk bonders
On the seventy third
Those poor saps
Jumpin’ like mad jimneys
See it all again in photo-montage
The whole thing goes bust
Crowd running up a charge
Of smoke and dust

That’s it I say
Wiped the slate
Wiped it clean

Now they all covered in dust
Lets put it back in the oven
And bake it to a fine crust

Feb-March 2002