'Twas Yoko, John, and me -

we called ourselves "the three"

the Sea of Time

waved into rhyme

and four-part harmony.

As Paul left for the coast

I saw Big Bopper's ghost,

hello, goodbye,

don't ever fly,

you end up buttered toast.

A harsh producer's stare,

forced all of us to share,

the taxman cried

that George had lied

and no-one seemed to care.

Then Ringo came between,

his drumsticks turned to green,

but we were men

and launched again

our yellow submarine.

The critics never cease

and John found his release,

they showed the blood

and raked the mud

yet all they found was peace.