Lyrics
Well, the sweet pretty things are in bed now, of course
City fathers they're trying to endorse
The reincarnation of Paul Revere's horse
But the town has no need to be nervous
The ghost of Belle Starr, she hands down her wits
To Jezebel the nun, she violently knits
A bald wig for Jack the ripper, who sits
At the head of the Chamber of Commerce
Mama's in the factory
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley lookin' for the fuse
I'm in the kitchen with the tombstone blues
The hysterical bride in the penny arcade
Screaming, she moans, "I've just been made"
Sends for the doctor, who pulls down the shade
Say my advice is to not let the boys in
Now, the medicine man comes and he shuffles inside
He walks with a swagger, and he says to the bride
"Stop all this weeping, swallow your pride
You won't die, it's not poison"
Mama's in the factory
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley lookin' for the fuse
I'm in the kitchen with the tombstone blues
John the Baptist, after torturing a thief
Looks up at his hero, the Commander-in-Chief
Saying, "Tell me, great hero, but please, make it brief
Is there a hole for me to get sick in?"
The Commander-in-Chief answers him while chasing a fly
Saying, "Death to all those who would whimper and cry"
And dropping a barbell, he points to the sky
Saying, "The sun's not yellow, it's chicken"
Mama's in the factory
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley lookin' for the fuse
I'm in the kitchen with the tombstone blues
The geometry of innocent flesh on the bone
Causes Galileo's maths book to get thrown
At Delilah who's sitting worthlessly alone
But the tears on her cheeks are from laughter
I wish I could give Brother Bill his great thrill
I've set him in chains at the top of the hill
Send them out for some pillars and Cecil B. DeMille
He could die happily ever after
Mama's in the factory
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley lookin' for the fuse
I'm in the kitchen with the tombstone blues
Where Ba Rainey and Beethoven once unwrapped their bedroll
Tuba players now, rehearse around the flagpole
And the National Bank at a profit sells road maps for the soul
To the old folks home and the college
I wish I could write you a melody so plain
That could hold you dear lady from going insane
That can ease you, cool you, and cease the pain
Of your useless and pointless knowledge
Mama's in the factory
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley lookin' for the fuse
I'm in the kitchen with the tombstone blues
