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Me and the vivid girl |
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In our hammock to the stars |
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Staring into the fire before TV |
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The remote control's on Mars |
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In the dope of the pigment |
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In a poetic state of mind |
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In a flood of the country |
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We lay down to kill some time |
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And we spoke languidly |
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Of the northern bee |
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And collecting dewdrops for tea |
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Underneath the cannonball tree |
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We were high, we were sherpa high |
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We conspired against old friends |
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We said we must be friends or die |
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And we've died a thousand times since then |
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And we spoke long, at length |
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Of the fight or flee |
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And of nothing in particularly |
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Underneath the cannonball tree |
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We spoke offhandedly |
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Of the new extremes |
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And of nothing in particularly |
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Underneath the cannonball tree |
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We're at the point where we love or hate it |
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We can write it down and obliterate it |
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When we're at the point when we neither love nor hate it |
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We can lay down and obliterate it |
