Almost fifty years later
Sunday morning still comes
There's three hours to kill
I imagine the one
My ferry, my church
He's setting me straight
In some crooked way
His American Dream is holding up
Though I can see that it is not enough
He wants Italian food
Made with electric heat
A groovy record
The heavy beat
While the kids carry on
The wife's in the john
Crushing up her prescriptions
They cradle their addictions
And their children
And the years go by
His American Dream
Tradition's key
Clay you can knead
A pot for your seed
Whatever you need, baby
