| Michael wakes you up with sweets
|
| He takes you up streets and the rain comes down
|
| Sidewalk markets locked up tight
|
| And umbrellas bright on a grey background
|
| There’s oil on the puddles in taffeta patterns
|
| That run down the drain
|
| In colored arrangements
|
| That Michael will change with a stick that he found
|
| Michael from mountains
|
| Go where you will go to
|
| Know that I will know you
|
| Someday I may know you very well
|
| Michael brings you to a park
|
| He sings and it’s dark when the clouds come by
|
| Yellow slickers up on swings
|
| Like puppets on strings hanging in the sky
|
| They’ll splash home to suppers in wallpapered kitchens
|
| Their mothers will scold
|
| But Michael will hold you
|
| To keep away cold till the sidewalks are dry
|
| Michael from mountains
|
| Go where you will go to
|
| Know that I will know you
|
| Someday I may know you very well
|
| Michael leads you up the stairs
|
| He needs you to care and you know you do
|
| Cats come crying to the key
|
| And dry you will be in a towel or two
|
| There’s rain in the window
|
| There’s sun in the painting that smiles on the wall
|
| You want to know all
|
| But his mountains have called so you never do
|
| Michael from mountains
|
| Go where you will go to
|
| Know that I will know you
|
| Someday I may know you very well
|
| Someday I may know you very well |