When every last oil rig coughs up sand,
And the tarred and feathered dove strokes dry land:
Maybe, baby, the world will get small;
But until then,
Waddle down the hall.

When all the forbidden songs are sung by the mute,
And the regular armies are rationed their salutes:
Maybe, baby, the world will get small;
But until then,
Waddle down the hall

When them old gold miners hold their picks up with poise,
And them old blind wardens get acquainted with the noise:
Maybe, baby, the world will get small;
But until then,
Waddle down the hall.

And so, come morning time, be there a sky of blood,
I’ll ride every alley way, be them filled with mud;
And maybe, baby, the ball will fall;
But until then,
Waddle down the hall.

The high noon
Of his wound
Blinds my
Cry.