The devil twinkling of an eye,
The shape, the look of you,
Not being privy to your scent,
Sound of your words resound, resonating,
Out at mans feet lays creation,
All sorted and shifted, its nature's
Ups and downs, indexed dusted: down
At mans feet lays himself
Sometimes the benevolence of the sun sets you free
Outside the house to roam within my comfort zone.
Your mother doesn't know yet (you know what she's like)
And I not far behind in her bothering.
When no flicker from a candle held to a mouth,
Gone are the days and the night put to sleep,
Hushing the muted tongue on death ears,
A blink of an eye and the shutters nailed down,
At the kampfbund deutscher kultur center,
Obergruppen neu director,
Doktor Helmut Schinkel Sturmban Spengler,
Grew an inanimate tree.
A sore seat's pedal on a sweltering road
That only time ever passed through.
And us on the banter of flowering girls
And the anticipation of a rare dead horse.
We were strapped in tight, in two huge birds.
In a dream moon landing trip.
All around us things were humming,
In our dream moon landing trip.
Play me, go on play me,
Play with me, play me baby,
Strike a chord and strum me lady,
Haven't got it on just lately.
The sound of the wind whispering through
An apparition in certain songs,
Like a hypnotist's spell counting to ten;
I was gone for the murmuring of summer’s last breath,
And first heard the breeze chime in your garden.
To come to you sitting on the tread of a door,