This is no dream, these ghosts are no illusion
Vandals, kids and thieves
Although we often curse them, we praise them for their wisdom
As I try to believe what I've read on bus shelters
Cos that is where the poets don't disguise their accents

I don't dream, how could I ever dream
When my nightmares are entrances wholly enclosed, started and angry my palms are cold, stumbling around in my dream
He said, she said

I don't sing this for them, but for a bunch of my own heroes
My weather boy
These clouds they make me love you more
We sang you songs you gave us more
You say that's what your there for
But your more than that
Your the light

The wisecracking sidekicks with knives at their throats
The sidesplitting tell-tales of harbours and ghosts
Moonlight sonatas with angels and demons and girls and their droves waving kisses to heathens
Street walking send ups with glints in their eyes
The smell of stale alcohol lining their sighs
Saboteurs and swindlers all cast aside
Diving through orchards to surrender their loots
A mass in our hearts as we pray for your loss
Arriving with pity to plunder your feast
Aloof and self-righteous we all read the tale and tussled for ways we could all shift the blame
Sweet bittersweet are the sounds and the sights, bitter and sweet is the sum of our lives.