An oldie from the early 90s recorded on some old homemade recording gear... (Quality not that good *sigh*) SONG OF DREAMS (©christian stone) Well, the private and his alibis Watch the coast with crooked eyes Border guards and well fed spies Tell them not to criticize or tease us Hear the choir in their twisted suits Play for us on broken flutes The busted nuns in hiking boots Walk the halls in parachutes to please us But for us this dream is therapy A back door piece of mystery This double dose of fantasy cant seize us Well, the elevator captain buys A rubber suit thats twice his size The tailor says it fits but lies But he cant even memorize his own name See matron and her millionaires Read poetry from rocking chairs When they get done, they leave in pairs To search the grounds for questionnaires and wild game But for us this dream is only fed By blinded fools whove never read Lets not repeat whats just been said, theyre not to blame Well, the inventor of the steering wheel Does cartwheels on our window sill He raves about his movie deal And wonders if its all for real or just a fake See the bandits call out for cigars And hear them plan from oyster bars On how to swindle baseball stars With frozen women on their cars, theyre on the make But for us this dream is hard to swim Like them we have these weights within Who knows if this just might begin an earthquake Well, the owners of the exit door Their poet and their matador Sell postcards from the basement floor And talk about the time before they fell away And the spanish lovers motorcade His doctor with his harlem maid Boast about how they got paid By gypsy girls who had it made just yesterday But for us we dream out by the tracks And hear as the poets tongue attacks Everyone behind their backs with what they say, with what they say
Posted on: Thu, 04 Sep 2014 09:03:09 +0000
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