We

know

of

an

an-

cient

ra-

di-

a-

tion

That

haunts

dis-

mem-

bered

con-

stel-

la-

tions

A

fain-

tly

glim-

me-

ring

ra-

di-

o

sta-

tion

While

Frank

Si-

nat-

ra

sings

Stor-

my

Wea-

ther

The

flies

and

spi-

ders

get

a-

long

to-

ge-

ther

Cob-

awebs

fall

on

an

old

skip-

ping

rec-

ord

Bey-

ond

the

suns

that

guard

this

roost

Bey-

ond

your

flo-

wers

of

fla-

ming

truths

Bey-

ond

your

la-

test

ad

cam-

pa-

igns

An

old

man

sits

col-

lec-

ting

stamps

In

a

room

all

filled

with

Chi-

nese

lamps

He

saves

what

o-

thers

throw

a-

way

He

says

that

he'll

be

rich

some

day

We

know

of

an

an-

cient

ra-

di-

a-

tion

That

haunts

dis-

mem-

bered

con-

stel-

la-

tions

A

fain-

tly

glim-

me-

ring

ra-

dio

stat-

ion

We

know

of

an

an-

cient

ra-

di-

a-

tion

That

haunts

dis-

mem-

bered

con-

stel-

la-

tions

A

fain-

tly

glim-

me-

ring

ra-

di-

o

sta-

tion

While

Frank

Si-

nat-

ra

sings

Stor-

my

Wea-

ther

The

flies

and

spi-

ders

get

a-

long

to-

ge-

ther

Cob-

awebs

fall

on

an

old

skip-

ping

rec-

ord