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.