It's a hundred thirty steps from the second to the seventh floor, it's seven little rap-taps knocking on my neighbor's door. I'm brushing up my story, I'm combing down my head of hair, I'm tucking in my sweater, I'm wheezing from those flights of stairs. Well hey my little neighbor I'm your neighbor from the second floor. I think I'm out of pasta. Could you spare a little bit of yours? It's been too long, it's been too long, it's been too long you know.
But one day we'll live in the spaces between the places where the other people live with their bones and their Freddie Jones talking on the T.V. We'll sleep on the docks above the crashing on the rocks of the water and paint our dreams with the morning screams of the flying crying seagulls.
Until then: Hey my little neighbor it's your neighbor on the telephone, I think I left a hairbrush, I think I left a pair of combs. It may be macaroni may be pizza may be angel hair, and maybe it's a music mounting as I count the stairs. A hundred thirty steps and I'm standing on the seventh floor. Is all of this for eating? Well what you think a dinner's for? It's been too long, it's been too long, it's been too long you know.
But one day we'll hide in the holes that all the meanies on patrol have forgotten and lay our heads on floating beds of shocking rocking seaweed. We'll slip through the cracks between the pilings on the back of the jetty and pour our brains in the waning moonlight dancing on the water.
Until then: It's a hundred thirty steps from the second to the seventh floor, it's seven little rap-taps knocking on my neighbor's door. Well neighbor since you're standing there you might as well just come on in, I've got a grand piano, I've got a little violin. We'll tune down the fiddle to the sound of the middle C and you can play the white keys and I can play the melody. It's been too long, it's been too long, it's been too long you know.
But one day.
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