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 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 of flee

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 can neither love nor hate it

we can lay down and obliterate it