|Lyrics:||Hyman Naugthon sat down to write a song,|
with the help of some expensive words,
comin' right along.
He wrote about his troubles,
and then he wrote of death.
about his love affairs,
and then about himself.
He played his favorite two
he played them back and forth.
He sang his verse and banged the strings until his
voice was hoarse,
and them some unexpected changes,
that hardly made good sense,
he proudly viewed coarse fingertips to be used as evidence.
I'm speaking of
fools are rude and mean.
I don't know if I'd make a judge,
it's only what
yeah, sha-sha, hey-yeh!
There's love inside of everyone for yourself or
and they'll want to take you with them,
on their side of the fence.
a friend of mine once told me,
if your neighbor's house should burn,
he'd want your house
depressed was I to learn.
Friends all around who fear my cold condemning
handed down from older men, they seem to insane to care.
Then again I don't
my mind must be truly dense.
But I think what they call genius,
I'm speaking of the gentle,
fools are rude and
I don;t know if I'd make a judge,
it's only what I've seen.