It's a dream of a face of a friend of mine with things erased, things undefined, her mouth is traced in a lazy line by a sleepy apprentice boy who paints the faces on the toys for the rich kids in London who play with their cousins who say they love things and hate things, buy things and break things, cause they know it'll all be okay. So wave your hair in the garden and feel the wind in the trees and take your share of the garden but don't come crying to me.
The meaning's gone from every word, the blades are dull, the lines are blurred, the sounds are ghosts of things I heard on an April night in Mayflower painting faces as I lay on the hood of the car counting the stars, I knew I'd be fine for a while, shine for a while, til they tore the lights from the sky. So build your road from the garden and wear a suit of branches and leaves and know what you know in the garden but don't come crying to me.
She says the world does what it does, it's the same old world it always was, it's a dream we dream all because of a sleepy apprentice child who throws a log on the pile to keep up the fire before he retires to lay as the cracks let the sun in but rich kids in London know the whole thing's a game. So roll your eyes at the garden and wear a suit of irony and wave goodbye to the garden but don't come crying to me.
Don't come crying to me.
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