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There's a haze on the skyline, to wish me on my way.
And there's a note on the telephone
some roses on a tray.
And the motorway's stretching right out to us all,
as I pull on my old wings
one white duck on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?

I'll catch a ride on your violin
strung upon your bow.
And I'll float on your melody
sing your chorus soft and low.
There's a picture-view postcard to say that I called.
You can see from the fireplace, one white duck on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?

So fly away Peter and fly away Paul
from the finger-tip ledge of contentment.
The long restless rustle of high-heeled boots calls.
And I'm probably bound to deceive you after all.

Something must be wrong with me and my brain
if I'm so patently unrewarding.
But my dreams are for dreaming and best left that way
and my zero to your power of ten equals nothing at all.

There's no double-lock defense; there's no chain on my door.
I'm available for consultation,
But remember your way in is also my way out,
and love's four-letter word is no compensation.

Well, I'm the Black Ace dog-handler: I'm a waiter on skates
so don't you jump to your foreskin conclusion.
Because I'm up to my deaf ears in cold breakfast trays
to be cleared before I can dine on your sweet Sunday lunch confusion.

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