I get lost in crowds: if I can,
I remain invisible to the hungry mouths.
I stay unapproachable.
I wear the landscape of the urban chameleon.
Scarred by attention.
And quietly addicted to innocence.

So, who am I?
Come on: ask me, I dare you.
So, who am I?
Come on: question me, if you care to.
And why not try to interrogate this apparition?
I melt away to get lost in this quaint condition.

At starry parties where,
Amongst the rich and the famous
I'm stuck for words: or worse,
I blether with the best of them.
I see their eyes glaze
And they look for the drinks tray.
Something in the drift
Of my conversation bothers them.

So, who am I?
Come on: ask me, etc.

In scary airports, in concourses over-filled,
I am detached in serious observation.
As a passenger, I become un-tethered when
I get lost in clouds: at home with my own quiet company.

Herald Tribune or USA Today.
Sauvignon Blanc or oaky Chardonnay.
Asleep for the movie.
Awake for the dawn
Dancing on England and hedgerowsE
embossed on a carpet of green.
I descend and forgive me
I mean to get lost in crowds.

Copyright: BMG Rights Management
Writer(s): Ian Anderson