The Last Great Audit
Quaker City Night Hawks
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Well, here comes Johnny talking 'bout using his wits
While the rest try to find out just who wrote all of his hits
And you can't blame a man that securely sits
In a hole that you made just for him
Why not tango, shango, 'til he throws fits?
'Til he claws out his eyes and finally has to admit
That nothing is sacred until it becomes print
In his own hand, more than yours
Behind those pages rages words of a man
Trying to explain to his son who just can't understand
Why he'd rather sit down than make a stand
In an old, worn-out dusty pen
And all this Moses wrote us of a plan
Said he won't tell us why, just what, and what we can't
How we'll never walk through the gates of his promised land
'Til we shake off our bloody ancestors' blues