Smith Silvers is the man who wrote the writing on the wall
When you`re backed into a corner then he taps you on the shoulder
And whispers in your ear that flying isn`t really hard;
He`s hiding in the manuscript that last year left to moulder;
He leans out of your monitor and tells you 'Pick a card'.
He plays a golden trumpet that blows out soapy bubbles;
He sings a song of silence, which echoes round the room.
He`s the lady at the bus stop who tells you all your troubles.
He`s the prophet with a banner 'Loganberry jam means Doom';
His 1960 Lada is the chariot Ezekiel saw
And he pulls out a sheaf of papers just when you think he`s done.
No matter where you went this year, he was there three weeks before
And when you look back at your photos, he`s there in every one.
