Timothy Leary's dead.
No, no no no, he's outside, looking in.
He'll fly his astral plane,
Take you trips around the bay,
Brings you back the same day, Timothy Leary.
Along the coast you'll hear them boast,
About a light they say that shines so clear.
So raise your glass we'll drink a toast,
To the little man who sells you thrills along the pier.
He'll take you up, he'll bring you down,
He'll plant your feet back firmly on the ground.
He flies so high, he swoops so low,
He knows exactly which way he's gonna go.