Time, all the long red lines, that take
Control, of all th smoke-like streams that flow into your
Dreams, that big blue open sea, that can’t be
Crossed, that can’t be climbed, just born
Between, oh the two white lines, distant gods and faded
Signs, of all those blinking lites, you had to pick the one tonight…
Holes, dug by little moles, angry jealous
Spies, got telephones for eyes, come to you as
Friends, all those endless ends, that can’t be
Tied, oh they make me laugh, and always make me
Cry, until they drop like flies, and sink like polished
Stones, of all the stones i throw,
How does that old song go?
How does that old song go?…
Bands, those funny little plans, that never work quite right.