Look at slow motion asleep at the door
Next to destruction, reach for the source
Get up, get up, get over, take me to your blackened sky
There's not enough fairy dust in the world for you to fly now. You're too much Dustin Hoffman and not enough Andrews as a boy. Yeah you may jump on beds but I doubt you could ever knit a dinner from thin air, now could you, tiny one. But maybe yet you can sew a shadow onto your face at night and make it all so very not Rufio. No more swords or words of hurrah, it seems, all ordinary and paisley-tied in tongue and cheek. Cat may be at play or a frog about to jump, but what can you do about it all as you fall faster asleep. It's all a lovely tra-la-la without the Pan, just a whistle in the distant hung aviary blue traveling along a thin wired wheel to a never seen land of ne'er do wells and thieves of soul.
So you simply see there's no way for you to quite get the jist. Straight lines are too few and far between in mind for you to tread lightly and blindly, blonde. Pick up the penguins and the moose, a few elk, and a whole score of ambiguity in boxes of overweight truth. You can't capture Marx or Monty but you can surely gleen that life is more than the obvious and extraordinary when there is absurdity in the pilot seat and hysterical glibness along for the ride.