There ought to be a seat, there ought to be some green
Where these four corners meet, the trees ought to be seen

We’ll make a space for Calloway
We’ll make a space for Calloway

We’ll stay outside instead, it darkens ever deep
These bricks will make a bed, where rolling watchmen sleep

We’ll make a space for Calloway
We’ll make a space for Calloway

There’s nothing but a broom, a half a dozen loaves
The room has lost its bloom, its purples and its mauves