The face of the painter has long since faded to gray.
The smiles of the children have taken the circus away.
The grocery store is fashioned in blood and confusion.
The pharmacy drowns in a sea of cold distribution.
And the chickens that squawk while philosophers talk are all crying,
And the dogs still unfit to truly commit are all dying,
Yet the gentleman caller is guilty for basically trying.

Just down the street they're singing a Christmas carol.
For the woman who entered the hospital and exited sterile
And her husband who's sleeps in the alley behind the station
And works with the silent but deadly organization
And the chickens that squawk while philosophers talk are all crying,
And the dogs still unfit to truly commit are all dying,
Yet the gentleman caller is guilty for basically trying.

John is the sweeper that sweeps up the interrogation
Jane is responsible for recording all the litigation
And Joseph is looking for work in the classified section
While June's in the bedroom hoping for appreciation
And the chickens that squawk while philosophers talk are all crying,
And the dogs still unfit to truly commit are all dying,
Yet the gentleman caller is guilty for basically trying.

Sometime ago you left me a small indication
That somehow I did something to make you lose your patience
But all along I have been swallowing my speculation
That you have been waiting to flee from our integration
And the chickens that squawk while philosophers talk are all crying,
And the dogs still unfit to truly commit are all dying,
And the judge has found me guilty for basically trying.
You have found me guilty for basically trying.