tree top low
this country it festers
it's teeming with filth
i give it my best words
in an effort to build
but the structure is sinking
as if constructed on sand
and i can't help thinking
well isn't this grand
this robinson caruso country
all crammed inside this one tree
and though the limbs are weary
from the weight of oh so many
some toss caution to the wind
not a thought about the chances
they trust these rotten limbs
and shimmy out on branches
would the weakened limbs support us
was there safety in this forest
does it got the ring of truth
or just the hollow ping of raindrops
on a hot tin roof
should we try to be content then
with the little that they've given us
hold in our resentment
and try to look oblivious
how long could we continue this charade
before the wind blows in the rain
that puts an end to our parade
