Mark Mulcahy
Mark Mulcahy
Mark Mulcahy
Mark Mulcahy
Mark Mulcahy
Mark Mulcahy
Mark Mulcahy
Mark Mulcahy
Mark Mulcahy
Mark Mulcahy
Mark Mulcahy
If you kick them all out
Cause they never fit in
Lashed to the mast or
Drunk on the past
And they sit at the taverns
With mail ordered brides
They sit at the taverns
With mail ordered brides
Who stand like flamingos
And maybe it's true that they're greedy
That's probably why every thing's gone awry
And they couldn't be sure
That the whole world was pure
No they couldn't be sure
That the whole world was pure
And that heaven was just an ocean away
And maybe it's true
That the house was too big
You'll find oversized quarters
For your sons and your daughters
And sons will be stealing
That red, white, and blue feelings
And daughters will be looking
At the ceiling or kneeling
But there's a patriot born everyday
But what do you expect
When you put out with losers
Misfits and drifters
And battle ax losers
And you give them a boat
And say here off you go
And don't you come back
Until I say so
Until I say so
Until I say so