Boxfull of Bones

Two thousand treacherous miles to Archangel by sea
Two thousand years in a hole at the base of a tree
Two thousand possible levers to pull
But there's only one lever
To pull that will ever
Deliver the eskimo's pie

And there's only one letter
To send that will ever
Enable the girl to decide
And there's one thousand nine hundred ninety-nine letters beside

One thousand nine hundred ninety-nine senator's wives
One thousand nine hundred ninety-nine miserable lives
One thousand nine hundred ninety-nine husbands
Who batter their wives, and their children and dogs
And then leave them to die in the cold
Thousands of years of tradition and practices
Over a thousand years old
And the bread in the basket is covered in fuzzy green mold

Ohhh Ohhhh the cul-de-sac
Every mother's child
Spin, spin, to cast off our sins
Which accumulate out in the street in a terrible pile

Two thousand inmates are trying to break from the jail
One thousand nine hundred ninety-nine of them will fail
Only one inmate survives and he says that
It's always improper to laugh at misfortune
Unless that misfortune's your own
Thousands of questions are asked every day
To which answers will never be known
And then when you are dead you become just a boxfull of bones