Sandman says no place in dreamland,
Tells me St. Peter might be able to help.
Help me find somewhere to rest,
Somewhere to think.
St. Peter looks me up and down,
He tells me I’m fractured,
I say, “Am I?”
He says, “Think so.”
I tell him I cannot fly,
He asks me why I want to fly,
I tell him I didn’t say I want to; just said I couldn’t.
He tells me he can give me flying lessons,
He seems keen – pushing the idea.
Goes on about me living near White Cliffs,
Says, “Flying’s easy – just jump,”
That I only have to do it the one time.
One time and I’m cured.
I ask him if he will let me in then,
Tell him I still need a place to rest; to think,
He answers, “Maybe; maybe by the back gate.”
He travels with me to those White Cliffs.
I ask why the horizon always bruises under the weight of the darkest storm clouds,
I ask him to look out to sea at the crippled skyline.
He shrugs; indifferent.
He doesn’t see it that way,
Says, “The weathers fine by me,”
I want to know if that’s a good or a bad thing,
He answers, “Bad I guess – for you.”