| On a hill, inside a house in covewell reach
|
| Stands a man who’s feeling very tired
|
| Looking at a song he wrote some time ago
|
| Could have made it big inside a broadway show
|
| Every day I go away and find ideas
|
| Think, I’ll climb on top of somewhere high
|
| Couldn’t I write a song about a man who’s dead
|
| Didn’t really know if he was off his head
|
| Ev’rybody knows, that’s the way it goes
|
| Too bad for gilbert green
|
| We can tell the world that he was right
|
| Sitting in his attic on a sunny day
|
| Mending 50 goblets that are worn
|
| Humming to himself a song of yesteryear
|
| His hearing wasn’t good but his eyes were clear
|
| Ev’rybody knows, that’s the way it goes
|
| Too bad for gilbert green
|
| We can tell the world that he was right
|
| Now the house is burnt along with gilbert green
|
| Sad to see his sisters stand and cry
|
| And in the basement lies a song that wasn’t seen
|
| Tells the tale of laughing men and yellow beans
|
| Ev’rybody knows, that’s the way it goes
|
| Too bad for gilbert green
|
| Now we can tell the world that he was right |