Grow another head, paint it green
Fly to the moon on gossamer wings
At fourteen o'clock, March seventy-fourth
When the new moon is full fly south by north
To the cucumber races held every fall
When the blue trees are short and the flowers are tall
Under the stars made of blueberry pie
In the middle of the night 'neath a clear blue sky
And wonder: Why am I here with these wings of mine
Is it merely fool chance or some purpose divine?
Then ponder as you drift in the world of Dreams
What is real? And yet still --
All's not as it seems