My greatest thinker speaks in a slur impediment
and the busy think she don't know what she meant
She lies a hearing filter and she screens the judgemental
My greatest thinker writes and her words miss Cs and Ys
and the busy never read beyond two lines.
Her meaning's in intention and she teases perfection.

Looking straight, I master my peripheral staring
at the disturbance of a curtain amid a swing,
side to side, I head towards it like a running bull.
I feel I have been had by a missing matador.

Some tricks and surprises
by the ghosts who know I know they're there.

La la la la

Listening beyond the sirens of solace and woe,
tuning my mind as a new surveillance radio,
without funding, I am growing ever less believed
For I am in wait, it is her who does the summoning

Her whispers in bright
and screams in dark make her hard to find

La la la la

Everyone is growing old and whiskers,
and finding how they save
by helping sense the subtle wave
Everyone is growing old and wrinkles
for meeting other lonely souls
showing the ways that they behave
Always wishing for more deep sea diving
feeling obligated to ask
even as their lungs become compressed
"Why are my beautiful always hiding?"
and "We could have picked a better time
to begin running out of breath!"

Ooooooooooooh