The pin-striped men of morning,
suits all pressed and clean--
they ramble, here
and rumble, there--
they don't know what it means

The housewives of the pin-stripes,
toying with their hair--
they wear it up
or wear it down--
they're looking ev'rywhere

The children of the housewives,
romping through the town--
whether alone
or with a crew
they're searching all around

The pastor of the children
pious, true, and blue--
he thumps the Book
shouts to his Lord--
he's hunting for it, too

The pin-striped men of mourning
now ragged and poor--
they lost it all
but in their fall
they know what to look for