you are the absent moon

pulling the tide too soon

when turtles hatching under sand

they’re digging themselves out again

i’m there i’m there i’m always there

so come you seagulls and bring your cutlery

come dine on the hatchlings stampeding to the sea

the green flippered masses of potentiality

for your feasting pleasure, so at least

tip your waitress please

you’re my magnetic moon

and everybody else’s too

i’ll fight my way from underground

to you i’ll swim until i drown

i swear i swear i swear i’m almost there

but in fly the future dose us with reality

come dine on the dreamers and the tunnel visionaries

the dark fuzzy masses of mustaches and goatees

for your grooming pleasure so at least

tip your wing

and i hope i’m not too close to see

i’m just as lost as all the rest around me

so temper all your passions

and live simple and free

divorce from surface pleasures

and build a hovel deep

but above the predators of love

will come to find their peace

but you’re afraid of seagulls 

so you’ll never see the see

so i hope you sing some damn good melodies