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On a hill, inside a house in Covewell Reach,
stands a man who’s feeling very tired,
looking at a song he wrote some time ago,
could have made it big inside a Broadway show.
Every day I go away and find ideas,
think: I’ll climb on top of somewhere high.
Couldn’t I write a song about a man who’s dead,
didn’t really know if he was off his head.
Everybody knows that’s the way it goes,
too bad for Gilbert Green.
We can tell the world that he was right.
Sitting in his attic on a sunny day,
mending fifty goblets that are worn,
humming to himself a song of yesteryear,
his hearing wasn’t good but his eyes were clear.
Everybody knows that’s the way it goes,
too bad for Gilbert Green.
We can tell the world that he was right.
Now the house is burnt along with Gilbert Green.
Sad to see his sisters stand and cry,
and in the basement lies a song that wasn’t seen,
tells the tale of laughing men and yellow beans.
Everybody knows that’s the way it goes,
too bad for Gilbert Green.
Now we can tell the world that he was right.
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