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A barber does not shave himself.

African proverbs
Added by Lucian Velea
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I'll Get One Tomorrow

Barber, barber, come and get me;
Hairy torrents irk and fret me.
Hair and hair again appears;
And climbs like ivy round my ears.
Hair across my collar gambols;
Down my neck it wayward ambles.
Ever down it trip it tickles;
Yes, where it trips it tickles.
Barber dear I wish I knew;
Why i do not visit you.
Why I grudge the minutes ten;
In your smiling den.
Why I choose to choke on hair;
Rather than to mount your chair.
Men no busier than I;
Weekly to your office hie.
Men no busier than myself;
Confront the armory on your shelf;
Men no wealthier than me;
Gladly meet your modest fee.
And for a fraction of a dollar;
Keep the jungle off their collar.
I alone am shy and flustered;
Solitary, cowardly custard.
Shaggy as a prize angore;
Overrun with the creeping flora.
Barber, barber, you’re in luck;
The bell has rung, the hour has struck.
Sloth strong, the hair is strong;
I cannot stand it any long.
Barber, barber here I come;
Shake up the odorous bay rum.
Bring on your shears your scythes, your snippers;
Bring on your crisp electric driers.
Employ a dozen extra sweepers;
Bring giant harvesters and reapers.
I warn you a bumper crop;
Waits to overwhelm your shop.
Braber, barber, be verbose;
Be anything but clip me close.
Leave me razored, leave me scissored
Leave me hairless, as a lizard;
Barber, barber, single and scald;
Barber can’t you make me bald?
I will be the happiest of men;
And never think of you again.

poem by Ogden Nash
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The Man from Iron Bark

It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town,
He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down.
He loitered here he loitered there, till he was like to drop,
Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop.
'Ere! shave my beard and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark,
I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark.'
The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are,
He wore a strike-your-fancy sash he smoked a huge cigar;
He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee,
He laid the odds and kept a 'tote', whatever that may be,
And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered, 'Here's a lark!
Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark.'

There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall.
Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all;
To them the barber passed the wink his dexter eyelid shut,
'I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut.'
And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark:
'I s'pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark.'

A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman's chin,
Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in.
He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat,
Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat;
Upon the newly-shaven skin it made a livid mark -
No doubt it fairly took him in - the man from Ironbark.

He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear,
And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear,
He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd'rous foe:
'You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! one hit before I go!
I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark!
But you'll remember all your life the man from Ironbark.'

He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout
He landed on the barber's jaw, and knocked the barber out.
He set to work with nail and tooth, he made the place a wreck;
He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck.
And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark,
And 'Murder! Bloody murder!' yelled the man from Ironbark.

A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show;
He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go.
And when at last the barber spoke, and said ''Twas all in fun'
Twas just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone.'
'A joke!' he cried, 'By George, that's fine; a lively sort of lark;
I'd like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark.'

And now while round the shearing floor the list'ning shearers gape,
He tells the story o'er and o'er, and brags of his escape.

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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This Morning At The Barbershop

This morning at the barbershop,
a barber is busy with the hair
of a much older grey haired man
that he is trimming neatly
and a young man
sits in one of the barber’s chairs.

When I sit down to wait
the young man rises
turning to me
and asks if he can cut my hair.

I was happy to get attention immediately
while the other barber was finishing
with the older man,
as he looks to finely tuned to me.

My hair was smartly cut
with a pair of scissors
and the young barber
held his fingers
to determine the length
and I wanted it shorter
than just cutting off the ends

while the other barber
first took a hair blower
from a drawer,
sprayed something over his own hair
before he started to blow it in the mirror
and he then said
that he cannot go
to the bank to wait in line
with a head looking like Tut’s ass

and I saw my locks
falling dark brown
with dots of grey around me
and saw the other barber
combing his long hair
and smiled at myself
about the vanity of humanity
while I looked at myself
and were starting to look much better.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Haircut.

The Barber came to cut my hair,

I told him that it wasn't fair.

My hair had done him no harm,

Without it I would loose my charm.

The Barber he grinned a silly grin,

Said to cut my hair would be no sin.

That I should face it like a man,

But I'm a coward and away I ran.

Do you like sitting in a Barbers chair,

With him chopping away your lovely hair.

Once my head was full of curls,

Covering my face with twisty twirls.

But then the Barber came my way,

I was a child, I had no say.

Off came my curls one by one,

The Barber seemed to have great fun.

Now I'm old and very grey,

I'm nearly bald, my hairs gone away.

But when I see a Barbers chair,

I feel the loss of my curly hair.

You know I truly rue the day,

When that first Barber came my way.

poem by Bernard Shaw
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Parlez-Vous Francais?

Caesar, the amplifier voice, announces
Crime and reparation. In the barber shop
Recumbent men attend, while absently
The barber doffs the naked face with cream.
Caesar proposes, Caesar promises
Pride, justice, and the sun
Brilliant and strong on everyone,
Speeding one hundred miles an hour across the land:
Caesar declares the will. The barber firmly
Planes the stubble with a steady hand,
While all in barber chairs reclining,
In wet white faces, fully understand
Good and evil, who is Gentile, weakness and command.

And now who enters quietly? Who is this one
Shy, pale, and quite abstracted? Who is he?
It is the writer merely, with a three-day beard,
His tiredness not evident. He wears no tie.
And now he hears his enemy and trembles,
Resolving, speaks: "Ecoutez! La plupart des hommes
Vivent des vies de desespoir silenciuex,
Victimes des intentions innombrables. Et ca
Cet homme sait bien. Les mots de cette voix sont
Des songes et des mensonges. Il prend choix,
Il prend la volonte, il porte la fin d'ete.
La guerre. Ecoutez-moi! Il porte la mort."
He stands there speaking and they laugh to hear
Rage and excitement from the foreigner.

poem by Delmore Schwartz
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Calamity in London

'Twas in the year of 1897, and on the night of Christmas day,
That ten persons' lives were taken sway,
By a destructive fire in London, at No. 9 Dixie Street,
Alas! so great was the fire, the victims couldn't retreat.

In Dixie Street, No. 9, if was occupied by two families,
Who were all quite happy, and sitting at their ease;
One of these was a labourer, David Barber and his wife,
And a dear little child, he loved as his life.

Barber's mother and three sisters were living on the ground floor,
And in the upper two rooms lived a family who were very poor,
And all had retired to rest, on the night of Christmas day,
Never dreaming that by ~e their lives would be taken away.

Barber got up on Sunday morning to prepare breakfast for his family,
And a most appalling sight he then did see;
For he found the room was full of smoke,
So dense, indeed, that it nearly did him choke.

Then fearlessly to the room door he did creep,
And tried to aronse the inmates, who were asleep;
And succeeded in getting his own family out into the street,
And to him the thought thereof was surely very sweet.

And by this time the heroic Barber's strength was failing,
And his efforts to warn the family upstairs were unavailing;
And, before the alarm was given, the house was in flames,
Which prevented anything being done, after all his pains.

Oh! it was a horrible and heart-rending sight
To see the house in a blaze of lurid light,
And the roof fallen in, and the windows burnt out,
Alas! 'tis pitiful to relate, without any doubt.

Oh, Heaven! 'tis a dreadful calamity to narrate,
Because the victims have met with a cruel fate;
Little did they think they were going to lose their lives by fire,
On that night when to their beds they did retire.

It was sometime before the gutted house could be entered in,
Then to search for the bodies the officers in charge did begin;
And a horrifying spectacle met their gaze,
Which made them stand aghast in a fit of amaze.

Sometime before the firemen arrived,
Ten persons of their lives had been deprived,
By the choking smoke, and merciless flame,
Which will long in the memory of their relatives remain.

[...] Read more

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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The I'd like to be........ series

The Sailor
I'd like to be a sailor - a sailor bold and bluff -
Calling out, "Ship ahoy!" in manly tones and gruff.
I'd learn to box the compass, and to reef and tack and luff;
I'd sniff and sniff the briny breeze and never get enough.
Perhaps I'd chew tobacco, or an old black pipe I'd puff,
But I wouldn't be a sailor if ...
The sea was very rough.
Would you?

The Porter
I'd like to be a porter, and always on the run,
Calling out, "Stand aside!" and asking leave of none.
Shoving trucks on people's toes, and having splendid fun,
Slamming all the carriage doors and locking every one -
And, when they asked to be let in, I'd say, "It can't be done."
But I wouldn't be a porter if ...
The luggage weighed a ton.
Would you?

The Pieman
I'd like to be a Pieman, and ring a little bell,
Calling out, "Hot pies! Hot pies to sell!"
Apple-pies and Meat-pies, Cherry-pies as well,
Lots and lots and lots of pies - more than you can tell.
Big, rich Pork-pies! Oh, the lovely smell!
But I wouldn't be a Pieman if ...
I wasn't very well.
Would you?

The Barber
I'd like to be a barber, and learn to shave and clip,
Calling out, "Next please! and pocketing my tip."
All day I'd hear my scissors going, "Snip, Snip, Snip;"
I'd lather people's faces, and their noses I would grip
While I shaved most carefully along the upper lip.
But I wouldn't be a barber if ...
The razor was to slip.
Would you?

The Teacher
I'd like to be a teacher, and have a clever brain,
Calling out, "Attention, please!" and "Must I speak in vain?"
I'd be quite strict with boys and girls whose minds I had to train,
And all the books and maps and things I'd carefully explain;
I'd make then learn the dates of kings, and all the capes of Spain;
But I wouldn't be a teacher if ...
I couldn't use the cane.
Would you?

[...] Read more

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Rhyme of the Three Greybeards

He'd been for years in Sydney "a-acting of the goat",
His name was Joseph Swallow, "the Great Australian Pote",
In spite of all the stories and sketches that he wrote.

And so his friends held meetings (Oh, narrow souls were theirs!)
To advertise their little selves and Joseph's own affairs.
They got up a collection for Joseph unawares.

They looked up his connections and rivals by the score –
The wife who had divorced him some twenty years before,
And several politicians he'd made feel very sore.

They sent him down to Coolan, a long train ride from here,
Because of his grey hairs and "pomes" and painted blondes – and beer.
(I mean to say the painted blondes would always give him beer.)

(They loved him for his eyes were dark, and you must not condemn
The love for opposites that mark the everlasting fem.
Besides, he "made up" little bits of poetry for them.)

They sent him "for his own sake", but not for that alone –
A poet's sins are public; his sorrows are his own.
And poets' friends have skins like hides, and mostly hearts of stone.

They said "We'll send some money and you must use your pen.
"So long," they said. "Adoo!" they said. "And don't come back again.
Well, stay at least a twelve-month – we might be dead by then."

Two greybeards down at Coolan – familiar grins they had –
They took delivery of the goods, and also of the bad.
(Some bread and meat had come by train – Joe Swallow was the bad.)

They'd met him shearing west o' Bourke in some forgotten year.
They introduced him to the town and pints of Wagga beer.
(And Wagga pints are very good –- I wish I had some here.)

It was the Busy Bee Hotel where no one worked at all,
Except perhaps to cook the grub and clean the rooms and "hall".
The usual half-wit yardman worked at each one's beck and call.

'Twas "Drink it down!" and "Fillemup!" and "If the pub goes dry,
There's one just two-mile down the road, and more in Gundagai" –
Where married folk by accident get poison in the pie.

The train comes in at eight o'clock – or half-past, I forget,
And when the dinner table at the Busy Bee was set,
Upon the long verandah stool the beards were wagging yet.

They talked of where they hadn't been and what they hadn't won;
They talked of mostly everything that's known beneath the sun.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Lawson
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Dog Faced Boy

Eels - dog faced boy
-----------------------
Coming home from the school today
Crying all along the way
Aint no way for a boy to be
Begging ma to shave me please
You little punks think you own this town
Well someday someones gonna bring you down
Life aint pretty for a dog faced boy
Life aint pretty for a dog faced boy
You, take back what you said now
Thats the last time I cry
You tell me what it is to be a friend, now
till I walk beside you on the street now
Ma wont shave me
Jesus cant save me
Dog faced boy
Life aint pretty for a dog faced boy
Life aint pretty for a dog faced boy
Life aint pretty for a dog faced boy
Life aint pretty for a dog faced boy
Going back to the school tomorrow
Hang my hairy head in sorrow
Aint no way for a boy to be
Aint no way to set me free, now
Ma wont shave me
Jesus cant save me
Dog faced boy
Ma wont shave me
Jesus cant save me
Dog faced boy

song performed by Eels
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Goin' Home

(Antonin Dvorak)
arr. Ken Colyer
(Lead out with Chris Barber on trombone)
Goin' home, he's goin' home
He'll be leavin', leavin' here today
Well if he don't leave now
Won't be goin' nowhere
Well home is where the heart is
Then my home's in New Orleans
Take me to that land of dreams
Lord, and if I don't leave now
I won't be goin' nowhere, nowhere
Goin' home
He's goin' home (yeah, yeah, yeah)
Yeah he leaving, leaving here today
Well if he don't go now
I won't be goin' nowhere
(Instrumental- piano)
Welcome to Dr. John
(Instrumental- horn)
Go to Chris Barber on Trombone, Chris Barber
What you say
And what you do
Well it's times like that, then I'm tellin' you
Well if you don't leave now
I won't be goin' nowhere (nowhere, nowhere, said nowhere) Lord
And if I don't leave now, I won't be goin' nowhere
Yeah but don't leave now
I won't be goin' nowhere
(woo, yeah) yeah...
(Transcribed by ear; corrections requested and welcomed!)

song performed by Van Morrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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Going Home

(lead out with chris barber on trombone)
Goin home, hes goin home
Hell be leavin, leavin here today
Well if he dont leave now
Wont be goin nowhere
Well home is where the heart is
Then my homes in new orleans
Take me to that land of dreams
Lord, and if I dont leave now
I wont be goin nowhere, nowhere
Goin home
Hes goin home (yeah, yeah, yeah)
Yeah he leaving, leaving here today
Well if he dont go now
I wont be goin nowhere
(instrumental- piano)
Welcome to dr. john
(instrumental- horn)
Go to chris barber on trombone, chris barber
What you say
And what you do
Well its times like that, then Im tellin you
Well if you dont leave now
I wont be goin nowhere (nowhere, nowhere, said nowhere) lord
And if I dont leave now, I wont be goin nowhere
Yeah but dont leave now
I wont be goin nowhere
(woo, yeah) yeah...

song performed by Van Morrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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History teaches us...

A stone's throw, just, from Chelsea's football ground,
-skinhead territory long before any silverware -
there's a barber whose window decorations indicate
they're stylists in that tricky, ingrowing black hair;
I dropped in there one day; and as the one white face
in that busy, proud salon (I took the last spare seat with some relief)
spent half an hour or so as a 'minority',
as images of identity played out some tennis game of mind
across the net of what - division or harmony?
was I the face of hated white supremacy, now
the hated white minority? Covert glances on both sides...

Eventually I settled down, to then enjoy the novel ritual to me:
when you're finished, dusted down - rise from the chair,
and pause a second or two upon the barber's dais there
and face the audience; to be admired for sharp new style
which is by implication, tribute to the barber's skill;
there's palpably the sound of silent, proud applause
(I even dared, now shorn and bolder, to acquiesce, with respect,
in just a hint of this attractive ritual...) .
And here's the crowning glory of this escapade:
they charged me less than for that difficult black hair...

'History teaches us...'
...not to trust too much the lessons of history;
but rather, learn from how it's working out:
emigrate to seek a better life somewhere
where faiths and customs are so different
and you're the proud, hardworking, strange minority.

But then, beware - your children will not want
the birthmark of 'minority'; and maybe seek
some other pride than that of family,
a new identity, some wilder faith
than football's common touch, or cricket green;

the hosts and guests of history must learn
to seek to learn the lessons both must earn.

The Romans, empire-builders, had a phrase for this:
'lacrymae rerum' - which so gladly, sadly, means
the tears of things...

poem by Michael Shepherd
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I Think I Can Beat Mike Tyson

Artist: jazzy jeff & the fresh prince
2 old men:
Hey...hey leroy...leroy
Yeah
Did you hear about that boy mike tyson?
Mike...mike tyson hes the boy
That played football from montreal aint he?
No no you old coop, he a...he a boxer man
Yeah
Let me tell ya I went to his fight a couple months ago.
I seen him hit this boy, and he hit the boy so hard
His head flew off into the eigtheenth row
(laughing)
They had to get his head out of the eighteenth row
[prince & jeff]
I was in jeffs crib one night about eight
And we were watchina couple of mike tyson fight tapes
Jeff was like...
Man, you see how hard mikes punchin?
Come on jeff the other guy was just lungin
Left, right, left, right, another k.o.
If that was me Id a been ok though
The very next day I gave russell a ring
With j.l. and omar we all called don king
I said yeah, don I got a problem
Tell em prince
yeah whats up? what you sayin? you tryin to solve em?
forget the small talk lets get to the nitty gritty
me and mike, two months, trump, atlantic city
Yo, you got this you gonna bust dude up
Yeah, you can be my trainer
Word up?
Im rough like a freight train smooth like ice
And yo jeff, straight up, I think I can mike tyson
Man, you can beat him, you can beat him
Yo man, word up
Yo I put on a couple of pounds man we can do this
You can do it
Newspaper boy, old men:
Extra, extra read all about it
Fresh prince challenges iron mike tyson to a fight
(laughing)
Ah hes crazy
Aint that the boy who knocked the guys head in the fifthteen row?
Hey leroy, you read the paper?
That boy done lost his man
[prince, barber]
There was press conference to see what training I was doing
Before then I had never heard reporters booing
Cameras flashing I was in the middle

[...] Read more

song performed by Will Smith
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~Reconciliation~

A black woman migrates to Europe
War devastated Germany in she finds a tolerant white widower to cope
Years some later a mulatto is born with arrear
Unluckily the newborn not so towards white but usual spirally knotted hair
She grows up and gets because of her white father´s repute a government job
Ego came out spontaneous in black aggression as corn on the cob
Her work by job agency comes mostly foreigners for demonstrations
Majority a jobless black immigrant who has not the lucky touch of Midas parentage in confrontations
She looks of blacks down and she herself is black
When asked to justify says she is more white hidden traits back
She repeats her satisfaction from day to day
Until she went to a white german barber for hair trim and foam some day
Your hair is another says the white old barber woman
I have no experience and i cut not those hairs as talisman
Go to a black barber she added
They understand more your hair as they the same headed

poem by Amit Ray
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The Barber

I'd like to be a barber, and learn to shave and clip,
Calling out, 'Next please! and pocketing my tip.'
All day I'd hear my scissors going, 'Snip, Snip, Snip;'
I'd lather people's faces, and their noses I would grip
While I shaved most carefully along the upper lip.
But I wouldn't be a barber if ...
The razor was to slip.
Would you?

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Va Va Voom

Some men have shaven their heads full of hair.
To keep some thinking it's a style to shave them.
But thinning hair attracts some folks to stare.
And vanity is mainly known for women,
Who groom!

With nails they manicure and shoes that shine.
Colognes expensive are picked for the scents sent!
High maintenance is now the bottom line,
For men groomed.
To be swooned.

Some men have shaven their heads full of hair.
Va va voom.
To keep some thinking it's a style to shave them.
But thinning hair attracts some folks to stare.
Va va voom.
And vanity is mainly known for women,
Who groom!

With intent to be swooned.

Ooooohhh...
Va va voom.
Groom to swoon.
Both...
Groom to swoon.
Va va voom.
Groom to swoon.
Both...
Groom to swoon.

Some men have shaven their heads full of hair.
To keep some thinking it's a style to shave them.
But thinning hair attracts some folks to stare.
And vanity is mainly known for women,
Who groom!

Although there are high maintenanced men there too...
Seeking to be swooned!

Oh? Oh? Oh? Ooooohhh...
Va va voom.
Groom to swoon.
Both...
Groom to swoon.
Va va voom.
Groom to swoon.
Both...
Groom to swoon.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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My Mind Keeps Movin’

Walk into a restaurant with chicken on my mind
Look at the menu I want roastbeaf and wine
A waitress comes up I order baked beans and bread
Oh when she brings it I want ham'n eggs instead
Because my mind keeps a movin' bouncin' and a groovin'
A flippin' floppin' every whichaway
From minute to minute if my mind ain't really in it
Never know just what I'm do or say

Sometimes I wake up happy sometimes I wake up mean
Sometimes I wake up missin' somethin' I ain't seen
Might wake up wasted and I might wake up dead
Might wake up and look around and jump back into bed
Because my mind keeps a movin'...
[ guitar ]
Sittin' home at midnight thinkin' bout Marie go to the phone I dial Carol Lee
I say come by babe just as fast as you can
And when she gets there I'm thinkin' bout Ann
Because my mind keeps a movin'...

Fly off to Paris just to get away from home
Get off in London and I grab a boat for Rome
Got to St Louis be in St Paul or else take a trip and go no place at all
Because my mind keeps a movin'...

I go to a psychiatrist to straighten my head
Then I decide I need a chiropractor instead
Put salt in my coffee and ketchup in my tea only dig a chick that don't dig me
Because my mind keeps a movin'...

Sometimes I don't shave and I look kinda weird
So shave off my hair and I grow a beard
Shave off my beard dye my eyebrows green
Play myself a song upon a tambourine
Because my mind keeps a movin'...

poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Uncle's Shave.

Uncle’s Shave.

You used to watch Uncle
shave in front of the small mirror

propped on the edge
of the kitchen sink,

his face lathered
in white soap,

his cutthroat razor
held just a short distance

from his skin
by his right hand,

as the other hand
held the skin taut

in preparation
of the razor’s slide.

You stood behind
fascinated,

your young eyes
searching the mirror’s world

of Uncle’s face
and the performers start.

Uncle watched you
in the mirror,

his lips breaking
into a small smile,

the razor held
just above his ear,

his eyes staring above
the shaving foam,

taking in
your fascinated gaze,

the open mouth,
your hands copying

[...] Read more

poem by Terry Collett
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Cross Eyed Mary

Who would be a poor man, a beggerman, a thief
if he had a rich man in his hand
And who would steal the candy from a laughing baby's mouth
if he could take it from the money man
Cross-eyed Mary goes jumping in again
She signs no contract but she always plays it clean
She dines in Hampstead village on expense accounted gruel
and the jack knife barber drops her off at school
Laughing in the playground gets no kicks from little boys
would rather make it with a letching gray
Or maybe her attention is drawn by Aqualung
who watches through the railings as they play
Cross-eyed Mary finds it hard to get along
A poor man's rich girl and she'll do it for a song
A rich man's stealer but her favour's good and strong
She's the Robin Hood of Highgate helps the poor man get along
Laughing in the playground gets no kicks from little boys
would rather make it with a letching gray
Or maybe her attention is drawn by Aqualung
who watches through the railings as they play
Cross-eyed Mary goes jumping in again
She signs no contract but she always plays it clean
She dines in Hampstead village on expense accounted gruel
and the jack knife barber drops her off at school
Cross-eyed Mary, Oh Mary.... Oh cross-eyed Mary

song performed by Iron Maiden
Added by Lucian Velea
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Penny Lane

(LennonMcCartney)
In Penny Lane there is a barber showing photographs
Of every head he's had the pleasure to know
And all the people that come and go
Stop and say hello
On the corner is a banker with a motorcar
The little children laugh at him behind his back
And the banker never wears a mack
In the pouring rain, very strange
Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes
There beneath the blue suburban skies
I sit, and meanwhile back
In Penny Lane there is a fireman with an hourglass
And in his pocket is a portrait of the queen
He likes to keep his fire engine clean
It's a clean machine
Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes
A four of fish and finger pies
In summer, meanwhile back
Behind the shelter in the middle of a roundabout
The pretty nurse is selling poppies from a tray
And though she feels as if she's in a play
She is anyway
In Penny Lane the barber shaves another customer
We see the banker sitting waiting for a trim
And then the fireman rushes in
From the pouring rain, very strange
Penny lane is in my ears and in my eyes
There beneath the blue suburban skies
I sit, and meanwhile back
Penny lane is in my ears and in my eyes
There beneath the blue suburban skies
Penny Lane

song performed by Paul McCartney
Added by Lucian Velea
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