The rain in front of my feet pounds the pavement like
An assembly of arrows slung by archers.
And I look at the earth through childish glasses.
There's a shiny silver castle, in the sky through clouds.
A pink and red sunset fills the sky like an endless shroud.

The concrete stones I walk on, turn into streets of gold.
And as I walk I feel like a peasant of the great land of Oz;
Walking the Yellow Brick Road.
Lions and tigers and tears, oh my.
Tears, as they're cried from the unending sky.
And the tears turn into waves of pocket-sized arrows,
slung by little Persian princes.

The tiny black pebbles around the garden like Lilliputian gates,
Ant kings and conquerors struggle to crush a cockroach
A hundred times its weight.
A hundred times, the gates gives in like the
Gulls that soar in a circle of sin.

In Sin City, brothels in the red light zones metamorphose into big black
Balling buckets of gin.
Gin made for an army of call-girls, in their little
Streetwalking concubine kin.
Kiss your hearts away.

Stars past the skies, whitewashed and grey
Painted by the man that lives
Faraway near the northeastern star which is fading away,
Depict the Aquarius and the colors of a of a night sky,
And a blue-black chameleon who’s tint is so sly as a
Hue and cry.

My mind may be blurred by buckets of tears,
But I promise you; I’d not once trade any one of these years.