Låttexter: Guess Who. Friends of Mine.

Friends of mine don't have the time for food or wine
Just money is on their minds
Life is sweet on a one-way street
They're indiscreet and funny, they'll never meet

B-bay, b-bay, b-bay, b-bay, bay, baby

I gotta get a two-ton truck
I gotta get a two-ton truck
I gotta get a two-ton truck
I gotta get a two-ton truck

I gotta do it to a duck on a two-ton truck
And fade away like Ron Rene
Alright, alright

You got the magical mystery tour
You got the magical mystery tour
You got the magical mystery tour
You got the magical mystery tour

And Kurt is the Walrus
And Kurt is the Walrus
And the Walrus does funny things to the veins in his left arm
Alright

And Michael is now a father, alright
And Michael is now a proud father, alright
And my good friend Michael is now a proud father
And Michael is now a father, alright
And that means Michael's wife is a mother, alright

Up the thirteen steps of the gallows
Walked the condemned man
And time passes very quickly when death is near

After having completed the first step
The condemned man knew there were but twelve left
Before he would meet death and his soul would leave his body
And after having completed the thirteen steps

The condemned man was met by a giant cloaked figure
And with a quick flick of the wrist, the man was dead
And his soul left his body and went down, down, down
To a place we laughingly refer to as hell

But none of us will ever go there
Because we're all far too groovy
The man's body was left to rot on the gallows
And a great multitude of black birds came
And picked the man's corpse apart

Piece by piece, limb by limb
Until nothing remained
And his blood melted into the ground below

The gallows was made from a tree created by God
The man's blood dripped into the ground
Which was created by God
Even the giant cloaked figure which was the man's own end
Was created by God

Even the man's soul which went down was created by God
Even the black birds which picked the man's corpse apart
Were created by God
And where was God?

In Flanders Fields, the poppies grow
Between the crosses row on row
To mark the dead

To Flanders Fields, the hippies go
To smoke the poppies there below
And feed their heads

And they're all friends of mine
Each and every one of them
No better or no worse
And we'll probably end up down there together when it's all over

And that's why we say
B-bay, b-bay, b-bay, b-bay, b-baby

It's all over and it's all right