Perhaps We Waited Just To Long,
With All Our Euphamistic Songs.
For The Green Grass Of Home Is All
Concrete And Stone
And There's Nothing For The Wind To Gather Where Its Blown.

No One Reads The Papers Anymore.
They Are Nothing More Than Lectures On The War.
And Those Who Hold The Hope,
They Just Sit And Smoke Their Dope
And They Talk Of Where Its At
And All The Books They Never Wrote

And The Mucky Truckee River Sings To Me.
The Mucky Truckee River Sings To Me.
Here Live The Hearts Where You Long To Be,
The Mucky Truckee River Sings To Me.

It Seems That Everyone You Meet,
Talks About The Fighting In The Streets.
But No One Has The Time,
And The Patriots You Find
Are Those Pink-poodled People
Of Sunset And Brine.

And The Mucky Truckee River Sings To Me.
The Mucky Truckee River Sings To Me
Here Live The Hearts Where You Long To Be,
The Mucky Truckee River Sings To Me.

Perhaps We Waited Just Too Long.
With All Our Euphamistic Songs.
For The Green Grass Of Home Is All Concrete And Stone,
And Theres Nothing For The Wind To Gather Where Its Blown.