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Me and the
vivid girl in our hammock to the stars
staring into the fire before TV, the remote-control's on Mars
In the dope of the pigment, in a poetic state of mind
in a flood of the country we lay down to kill some time
And we spoke languidly of the Northern Bee
and collecting dewdrops for tea underneath the cannonball tree
We were high, we were sherpa-high,
we conspired against old friends
we said we must be friends or die
and we've died a thousand times since then
And we spoke long, at length of the fight or flee
and of nothing in particularly underneath the cannonball tree
We spoke off-handedly of the new extremes
and of nothing in particularly underneath the cannonball tree
We're at the point where we love or hate it
we can write it down and obliterate it
when we're at the point when we neither love nor hate it
we can lay down and obliterate it |
