Written by Tom Waits



It's more than rain that falls on our parade tonight

it's more than thunder it's more than thunder

it's more than a swindle this crooked card game

it's more than sad times it's more than sad times

none of our pockets are filled with gold

nobody's caught the boquet

there are no dead presidents we can fold

nothing is going our way

and it's more than goodbye I have to say to you

it's more than woe-be-gotten grey skies now