| on the landing there in the slip stream | |
| on the sweet beams of by and by | |
| I am standing in the wet dream | |
| of a giant in the sky | |
| and i wonder does it enjoy me | |
| like the fresh fruit on the street | |
| that leaks the sweetest nectar | |
| and then spoils in the heat | |
| when waking, i feel a terror | |
| of the memory of night | |
| for a second, only to loose it | |
| for my eyes can't bear the sight | |
| so i look to you, my only real friend | |
| brother ishmael | |
| commanding the view from the crow's nest | |
| on a ship setting sail | |
| capsules of blue and gold | |
| weave themselves round me | |
| billow! billow! | |
| they cover my eyes | |
| they keep me satisfied | |
| I had a friend one time | |
| he packed up all his things and he left | |
| us behind | |
| and i still can't tell you why | |
| i remember him most clearly in | |
| the moments before the flash | |
| and i wonder if it was me or him | |
| that set in motion the gash | |
| and i question how could i get so | |
| close to such a cold heart | |
| and i question if the cold heart | |
| was in me from the start | |
| ishmael, you are the reader | |
| of every man in every sea | |
| and i'm sure you could tell the story | |
| much better than me | |
| cause all i see is honest confusion | |
| and this is truly heartfelt | |
| i'm like roshaman's woodcutter | |
| in the trees waiting for help | |
| capsules of blue and gold | |
| weave themselves round me | |
| billow! billow! | |
| they cover my eyes | |
| they keep me satisfied | |
| i had a friend one time | |
| he packed up all his things and he left | |
| us behind | |
| and i still can't tell you why | |
| weather is the ether | |
| sandbags and salt | |
| towers of grey matter | |
| thundering a cough | |
| the fingers of a tall moan | |
| a howl that can't be heard | |
| keep on singing, bird | |
| the cayman islands | |
| are just islands | |
| where men come and go | |
| and the wood on the pier | |
| must be replaced | |
| every few years or so |