My heart it goes out to that poor little
Dutch boy who stopped a great flood with the tip of his thumb.
Through parades and medals he felt no joy and took
to his bed with a bottle of rum.
The queen she arrived in her motorcade to give the good
Dutch boy a commemorative pen,
but he watched as the milkmaids all withered and grayed
And he knew that the waters must rise again.
Because the world is made up of milk and scissors,
Milk and scissors in a spiraling chain.
Milk and scissors like a cheap squirting flower,
Milk and scissors like worms when it rains.