Cut down see saw Needs some new glare Take me to every one's there If I could write you a love poem, I would But the pope street poked me again So please leave me here So I can try To blow my baby's mind In the years of panic With the fears of herbage I've had it Please blow your horn Yellow sandwich submarine Makes me cry like a fly With a weasy spoon So sleep on the kitchen Hey Joel, where you going with that? Where you going, where you going? Oh, with that But the pope street poked me again Poked me again Pope street poked me again Oh, poked me again Rock is dead, rock is dead Rock is dead, rock is dead Rock is dead, rock is dead Rock is dead, rock is dead Rock is dead, rock is dead Rock is dead, rock is dead Rock is dead, rock is dead Rock is dead