There's a haze on the skyline, to wish me on my way.

And there's a note on the telephone --- some roses on a

tray.

And the motorway's stretching right out to us all,

as I pull on my old wings --- one white duck

on your wall.

Isn't it just too damn real?

I'll catch a ride on your violin --- strung upon your bow.

And I'll float on your melody --- sing your chorus soft

and low.

There's a picture-view postcard to say that I called.

You can see from the fireplace, one white duck

on your wall.

Isn't it just too damn real?



So fly away Peter and fly away Paul --- from the

finger-tip ledge of contentment.

The long restless rustle of high-heeled boots calls.

And I'm probably bound to deceive you after all.



Something must be wrong with me and my brain ---

if I'm so patently unrewarding.

But my dreams are for dreaming and best left that

way --- and my zero to your power of ten equals

nothing at all.



There's no double-lock defense; there's no chain on my door.

I'm available for consultation,

But remember your way in is also my way out, and

love's four-letter word is no compensation.



Well, I'm the Black Ace dog-handler: I'm a waiter on

skates --- so don't you jump to your foreskin conclusion.

Because I'm up to my deaf ears in cold breakfast trays ---

to be cleared before I can dine on your sweet Sunday

lunch confusion.