who cares the age of fantasy

and I will make of this my very own affair;

gold leaves on a heavens knee

a lost city of sin with courting geese

with shepherds hair. with quails eggs for my smoking coals

tall shoes to walk a sunset dry;

on coconut shells where swells the wisdom of my discontent

glass eyes for the wrinkles of my bellys stately home

strolling through the thunder of children and mice

high into the hills of a beehives afternoon tea

singing to the trees of my innocence and guilt;

in abstract form, a mangoes mother cheers a taverns light

with flight of hand, dangling the marrow of my aunt

on sawdust floors where pours a warming ale

deep into the eyes of the lovers crystal glaze

as each crooked beam steams the windows of my bread;

in halls of lace where curds a quarter of my marshmellow mulberry bush

neatly packed with the pillars of my marbled arch and flake

in flamingo mood with a night airs bell and ball

never too tall the giant porcupine

to woo the fairest maiden as she scales a tanning sun;

still I make of this my very own affair;

with childlike eyes and a ribbon in my hair

twisting with a maypole on the grasses of youth

with peekaboo teeth and a highlight hair of white

I will sleep with a rattle and a big bass drum

each and every night;