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.