| Well come gather around me friends of mine, |
| While I sing to you about a minstrel band |
| Of children in their witches hats, |
| Painting pictures with the pipes of pan |
| How a young boy and his sister played some tunes |
| Upon a whistle made of tin |
| And led me through the flower gardens, |
| Laughing at the postman’s stubby chin |
| And in my dizzy stupor, |
| I was trying to forfeit all I’d known |
| And listen to that music that could swirl me in a magic all it’s own |
| But somewhere in the distance, |
| You and I, we fought our monsters to a draw |
| It was in those days of books and wine, |
| With Ferlin Getty grasping for a straw |
| And out along the highways, |
| We journeyed far to find that mystic smile |
| Chasing down identities, |
| My God we must have run a million miles |
| So we can teach the children, |
| Nothing, nothing but survival in the desert bare |
| They can teach us how to laugh, |
| How to love and tie bright ribbons in our hair |
| So sing for us you children, |
| Tinkle bells and rhyme the purple, greens and blues |
| Think of us as fighting fools, |
| Who wintered through our seasons loving you |
| Think of us as fighting fools, |
| Who wintered through our seasons loving you |
| Cause you can teach us how to laugh, |
| How to love and tie bright ribbons in our hair |