everybody wants do dance in a playpen,
but nobody wants to play in my garden.
I see the hippies on an angry line,
guess they don’t get my meaning,
I’m enchanted by the birds in my blossoms,
I’m enamored by young lovers on the weekend,
I like the Forth of July,
when bombs start flashing,
and I wish I had a shiny red top,
a bugle with a big brass bell would cheer me up,
or maybe something bigger that could really go pop!
so I could make the gardening stop
come out to play, come out to play,
and we’ll pretend it’s Christmas Day
in my atomic garden
all my scientists are working on a deadline,
so my psychologist is working day and nighttime,
they say they know what’s best for me,
but they don’t know what they’re doing,
and I’m glad I’m not Gorbachev,
’cause I’d wiggle all night,
like jelly in a pot,
at least he’s got a garden with a fertile plot,
and a party that will never stop,
I hope there’s nothing wrong out there,
I’m watching from my room inside my room.
|
|
