Ya see, the trouble with all that
is I just can't see you in that hat.
An', yeah, many times, I have been told
you need it in the cold;
the problem's in my eyes or my mind,
an' I'm left frozen and blind.
But, don't think I'm so dense,
I'll still find ya with my ol' fact'ry sense.
I'll follow yer breath's trail
as it 'scapes yer lips and's off to sail,
like grey-blue smoke of dark, satanic mills,
caught by a wind that chills,
knocks you over an' leaves ya flat.
So, it's best you keep on yer hat,
an' don't worry 'bout risin' in defense
of my ol' fact'ry sense.
But, then, I know that time'll come 'round
when what's been lost'll be found;
you'll no longer keep yer seat,
as the breezes grow gentle 'n heat,
while the Sun grows close 'n fat,
and, ya can fin'lly take off yer hat,
I'll see you standin' an' dispense
my need for my ol' fact'ry sense.