The sun, a glass marble shines on innocense.
I lie in short grass, looking into the future.

The moon- a shiny biscut covers the clouds.
And midnight bleeds into childhood dreams..

The watch hands turn into a foreign country.
The war passed, I standown in rags.

Looking thru the back glass of a Rambler Station Wagon.
Childhood dreams escape as the dust.
I smell Evening in Paris.

The wrinkles in skin and shirt pressed by time.
I lie in short grass, looking into the past.