of the coming of the corn!
I will gather up the harvest
even though I'm old and worn.
They'll be pumpkin pie for breakfast
and beans at dinnertime.
My crops are growing strong!
Glory, glory, Ange Ercoli! Glory, glory, Ange Ercoli!
Glory, glory, Ange Ercoli! My crops are growing strong!
This stalk of corn has SIX ears growing on it so far.
Six! That's almost unheard of.
I've got alien ships, hovering overhead,
I've got alien ships, hovering overhead,
having traveled many light years,
just to make crop circles in my corn patch.
But I stand out there with a broom every night
and chase them off. Will I have enough strength
to hold them off until harvest?
That's the question. I could use some help.
Perhaps, I'll falter, wax old and croak,
a crumbled heap of pre-retired manhood,
gone the way of all fish.
My hens will miss me when I'm gone.
They and The Lovely One will eat the corn
and remember me in passing.
The weeping widow will be heard to say,
The weeping widow will be heard to say,
"Ole Holiday sure could grow the corn.
Too bad he's not here to taste it. Pass the salt,
boyfriend."
