A mother and her kids,
An eleven A.M. trip,
Down the street from where they live,
To a grassy little stop,
That some one called a park,
'Cause it's routed in the wood,
In the wood,

A mother and her kids,
And they all have the same eyes,
But they're greener than they're blue,
Than they're blue,
And they love each other too,

A mother looking tired,
Always weighted under,
'Cause no one else bought food,

(And it's a Sunday afternoon),
And it's a slow afternoon,
(There's no one else around),
Cause there's no one else around,
(The TV drags me down, down),
The TV drags her down,
Drags her down,
Under weight of growing up from the ground,

I aspire to work so hard,
All the gold is buried in the park,
In the park,

A mother and her kids,
Walking hand in hand in hand,
They all have the same eyes,
The same eyes,
All the same eyes