There’s a haze on the skyline, to wish me on my way.
And there’s a note on the telephone — some roses on a
Tray.
And the motorway’s stretching right out to us all,
As i pull on my old wings — one white duck
On your wall.
Isn’t it just too damn real?
I’ll catch a ride on your violin — strung upon your bow.
And i’ll float on your melody — sing your chorus soft
And low.
There’s a picture-view postcard to say that i called.
You can see from the fireplace, one white duck
On your wall.
Isn’t it just too damn real?
So fly away peter and fly away paul — from the
Finger-tip ledge of contentment.
The long restless rustle of high-heeled boots calls.
And i’m probably bound to deceive you after all.
Something must be wrong with me and my brain —
If i’m so patently unrewarding.
But my dreams are for dreaming and best left that
Way — and my zero to your power of ten equals
Nothing at all.
There’s no double-lock defense; there’s no chain on my door.
I’m available for consultation,
But remember your way in is also my way out, and
Love’s four-letter word is no compensation.
Well, i’m the black ace dog-handler: i’m a waiter on
Skates — so don’t you jump to your foreskin conclusion.
Because i’m up to my deaf ears in cold breakfast trays —
To be cleared before i can dine on your sweet sunday
Lunch confusion.