On a journey through the yarn, Billy finds a heavy sound, Where the trumpets meet the wires on this hallowed, woven ground. In his velvet smoking jacket, with a crown upon his head, He’s chasing technicolour dreams inside a needle’s thread. Oh, Pink Elephants! In a psychedelic dream, A symphony of brass is flowing in a silver stream. With the Moog humming low and the cornets rising high, We’re tripping through the stitches of a knitted evening sky. Sixteen tons of purple fuzz and a Tuba’s golden roar, Billy’s opened up the latch on a secret, sonic door. With a winged piglet flying through a kaleidoscope of tea, The Brass is screaming "Sparkle!" for the whole wide world to see. Listen to the echo... Of the copper and the wool... The resonance is heavy... The tapestry is full. Oh, Pink Elephants! In a psychedelic dream, A symphony of brass is flowing in a silver stream. With the Moog humming low and the cornets rising high, We’re tripping through the stitches of a knitted evening sky. Pink... Elephants... are marching... on!
