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.

Copyright: BMG RIGHTS MANAGEMENT US, LLC
Writer(s): IAN ANDERSON