Spit in the Ocean

I wrote this song when I was working in a gas station in a very rough part of town. You might think, from the lyrics, that I was feeling small, myself, but, much to the contrary, I felt like I was on top of the world. I had a job. I had a car. I had a nice little house I was renting in a decent neighborhood. I had a beautiful, whip-smart girlfriend. And the people around my gas station, by and large, had nothing. So, in a sense, I was writing about myself.

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Spit in the Ocean

You must think you’re oh so very
terribly important
with your car, your house, your maid,
your butler and your porters.

But seen from the stars
you’re the same as all of us are.
And it might seem a queer notion
but we’re all just spit
in the ocean.


Hop upon a plane
run around the world
Tokyo, Paris, Rome, Berlin
and they're all full of your kind of girl.

You can have all the ones you want
you can play with people’s lives.
You can have all the rope you want
but soon enough they expect that noose
to be tied.

Seen from above
just another slightly balding head
a little bit of dandruff on the shoulders
but you’ll be dead
soon enough, anyway.

Hiding in your villa
on the Dalmatian Coast.
Your blue ribbon Afghan hound at your feet
the one that you prize the most.

But your baby’s got the rabies
and he’s gonna bite your foot.
ain’t there an end to the indignities
through which a human being
must be put.

Seen from the stars
Just another chunk of rock in space.
little ones crawling about on it
but they’ll be gone
soon enough, anyway.

You must think you’re oh so very
terribly important
with your car, your house, your maid,
your butler and your porters.

But seen from the stars
you’re the same as all of us are.
And it must seem a queer notion
but we’re all just spit
in the ocean.

(C) 1975, T.K. Major