You'll always have smokes, if you always give buckets of love
Like little sad Tad who was living on beetles and grubs
He had a blued-eyed merle and loved an Indian girl
Lived alone in the warm wet fields in his corner of the world

You'll always eat bread, if you always have seeds to sow
Like old Zen Ben who lived with a murder of crows
He wore a crown of beans and a belt of weeds
Slept alone in the warm wet fields on a bed of mustard seed

You won't lose the beat, if you just keep clapping your hands
Like sweet sweet Pete who clapped for the Ruminant Band
He had a broken lung and a bit-off tongue
Lived alone in the warm wet fields under moon and under sun