My own tears scald me like rivers of molten lead and I am bound, bound to the rack of fire like you said
So long ago, like a trembling little taffeta schoolgirl in the local townhall production of Oklahoma
These things have a habit, they have a habit of repeating themselves, the tragedy of an old man,
The ingratitude from the children whom he loved we know it well and
The only thing that keeps our sanity intact is the fool's wit in the annual townhall production of Oklahoma
Let's take Grandpa, but sit him by the aisle because he's liable to fart
He likes his Jaffas, but he's a nuisance when he starts to shake, he drops them all
And inevitably heads will turn, and there's hell to pay, because he's let off
Watch that fringe and see how it flutters, when I drive them high stepping strutters
Nosey pokes will peek through their shutters, and their eyes will pop
The wheels are yellow, the upholstery's brown, the dashboard's genuine leather
With icinglass curtains you can roll right down in case there's a change in the weather, weather, weather
Then one day you discover, that your poor old Daddy is dead
What can I say, I can't say nothing that hasn't already been said, said much better
All I can do is laugh my head off and cry my heart out at the giggly girls in taffeta dresses
In next week's production of Oklahoma, Oh'oh'oh'oh'oh-oh-oh-kla-ho-ma.