Tiptoe, tiptoe Tiptoe Man
You haven’t got a face
The shifty clouds; they’ll lock you in
Beware their fickle grace.
Beware the trees of firework limbs
They act as nature’s spies
Their leaves are like a polygraph
Detecting dirty lies.
They’ll tell your secrets to the grass
Which whispers to the air
And soon the breeze will pick them up
And blow them everywhere
Cut down the trees? You can’t, my dear
They’ll always grow and grow
Oh tiptoe, tiptoe Tiptoe Man
You’ve got no place to go.
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