Tangerine children float high in the sky o’er mandarin cockroaches who wriggle and lie down at five 'o' clock singing the blues while the swans in the mire are braying the truth.
Watch her standing there hands in her head she's crying out tears for the lives that she's led. Screaming and marching to unending doom for the pangs of adulthood are one song too soon.
The skies are of bureaucrats clouds are red tape but I'm raining down love into puddles of hate. Heartless exterior walls made of gold for that paradise lost the canons will roll.