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.
