No Hope-- no Grace --juste make believe
Popeye blew his smoke screen;
Trying to take away a favorite girl
And the man must consider asking== Popeye;
Just what is it exactly that’s in that spinach?
Has it fermented or maybe you just lost your mind little man.
Then with his best Irish baroque Popeye becomes a leprechaun;
As if maybe the luck of the Irish might be enough to;
Get to this fine specimen of womanhood.
One thing for sure he’s going to need a hell of a lot more money;
Maybe he ought to spend his time looking for that illusive pot of gold first.
Spinach breath goes on about how lucky the man is and;
How much he wishes he could be like him.
And the woman she’s thinking when I dance with a man;
I like to put my head on a man’s shoulders not rest my chin on his head.
And so it must go coming from the shire yet searching in the clouds.