| He’s old like the raspberry cold
|
| Coming in the window
|
| His gloom room
|
| Flowers blooming out like armadillos
|
| He looks to the left at the yellow lines
|
| Moving with the traffic
|
| His veins have turned to plastic blinds
|
| He was new like the violet dew
|
| Water looking at him through
|
| The telescopic mountain view
|
| Where the stars were still laughing
|
| He lept into the northern sky
|
| Filled his lungs with peace and
|
| Never even wondered why
|
| Go with the yellow light
|
| Your mind is a dandelion
|
| The weight of your crooked spine
|
| Is returning to snow
|
| They know, you were mostly our machines
|
| Not electrical in dreams
|
| He’s old like the raspberry cold
|
| Coming in the window
|
| His gloom room
|
| Flowers then blooming out like armadillos
|
| He walks with the owls and the yellow moon
|
| Walks like a river lapping
|
| His blood is thick and tacky
|
| He was new like the violet dew
|
| Water looking at him through
|
| The telescopic mountain view
|
| The stars were still laughing
|
| He lept into the northern sky
|
| Filled his lungs with peace and
|
| Never even wondered why
|
| Go with the yellow light
|
| Your mind is a dandelion
|
| The weight of your crooked spine
|
| Is returning to snow
|
| They know, you were mostly our machines
|
| Not electrical in dreams
|
| He looks to the left
|
| He looks to the left
|
| He looks to the left
|
| He looks to the left |