He gets up every morning
And he lights upon the floor
He migrates to the washroom
And he opens up the door
The whiskers on his chin tells him
He's in, and then
Through the paste and the soap
Sees an image without hope
He's a broom of a fellow
An oddity in parenthesis
So infected with disease of yellow dirt
Down in his soul
He usually spends his spare time
Counting hairs upon his arm
The ants upon the cupboard
To his thinking add their charm
He never starts to notice
That his shoes are full of lead
He's dead, through cough labored breathing
He is seething
He's a sandwich of a fellow
An all spread personality
So infected with disease of yellow dirt
Down in his soul
Last night a thousand stars were his
To mold like clay, and so
In one split seconds anger
He did reach and take a hold
He saw himself a captain way
Off in some kissin' situation
That would have made his father proud
He laughs out loud
He conceals the hurt, he reveals the dirt
The yellow dirt down in his soul
The yellow dirt down in his soul
The yellow dirt down in his soul
The yellow dirt down in his soul

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