How could such tired melodies
Dragged from their restful deeps
Hold firm such pulsing life;
Perhaps the young men then
Did dream in colour too.

Embattled in a seagull's cry,
Land of the broken and the free,
The clouds cling lightly on the edge,
Of calm horizons stretching to all spans.

Deeply lost within a fantastical land,
Embraced by forests of esoteric games,
Abbreviations of what I hardly know dressed up in leaves,
Perhaps I'll find a way to waltz upon the plains,
Firstly I must find a map to chart the trees.

Cooking with gas!
Blue flames at a slight gesture,
Clicking to my culinary score,
The heat rises fast and its gone in a twist,
Seems we're cooking with gas today.