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The Mad Hatter's Song
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Oh seekers of spring how could you not find contentment In a time of riddling reasons in this land of the blind By the joke of fate alone it's sure that as the loved hand leaves you, You clutch for the slip-stream, the realness to find. But do what you like, do what you like, do what you like, do what you like, do what you like, do what you can, do what you can, live till you die My poor little man. For Jesus will stretch out his hand no more. But in the south there's many a waving tree; Oh would that musky fingers move your pain; In the warm south winds the lost flowers bloom again. And if you cried, you know you'd fill a lake with tears, Still wouldn't turn back the years, Since the city has took you, Mad Hatter is on my mind. So sad, sad to see the way it grew Those other people that I knew That have either fell or faltered.

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