To you Kings of The Vagabonds' Theater,

Just below is what I heard.

On your smuggling the winds of change:

Something somehow a little bit strange

happened; Mojo got me a gun,

while the White Parade was done.

Bob the poet once wrote a letter

to meet a man in the long, cold sweater.

"Is Uncle Sam already half-dead?

Isn't it a good day for a deathbed?"

After the poet cut his red nose,

crystal clowns that nobody knows,

gathering flowers of innocence,

down here came and said, "Make sense!"

Suddenly a little girl started to shout,

"So, I'm gonna getcha. I bust ya out!"

Gazing back at the stars above,

Bob the poet did lose his love.

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