(Lyrics by James Seals; music by James Seals & Dash Crofts, 1971)
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He gets up every morning and he lights upon the floor.
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He migrates to the washroom and he opens up the door.
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The whiskers on his chin tells him he's in, and then
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Through the paste and the soap, sees an image without hope.
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He's a broom of a fellow, an oddity in parenthesis.
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So infected with disease of yellow dirt down in his soul.
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He usually spends his spare time counting hairs upon his arm.
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The ants upon the cupboard to his thinking add their charm.
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He never starts to notice that his shoes are full of lead.
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He's dead, through cough. Labored breathing, he is seething.
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He's a sandwich of a fellow, an all-spread personality.
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So infected with disease of yellow dirt down in his soul.
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Last night a thousand stars were his to mold like clay, and so
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In one split second's anger he did reach and take a hold.
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He saw himself a captain way off in some kissin' situation.
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That would have made his father proud, he laughs out loud.
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He conceals the hurt. He reveals the dirt.
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The yellow dirt down in his soul. The yellow dirt down in his soul.
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The yellow dirt down in his soul. The yellow dirt down in his soul.
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Yellow Dirt
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| Seals & Crofts |
