Is it me or is it Alice,
when I cut the rope it starts raining,
hands be moving and two penny rolling down the page to thirty,
show me mercy…
show me kindness
I am hiding in the laughing, smiling faces to the floor
and the days are getting shorter and the nights are getting old,
fancy ice-cream on the highway, chocolate in the heart of storm
it’s a name my lips be spelling as a fan of Rolling Stones,
like a hopper in the grass
like a monster with a dress
they had red wine for a breakfast in the middle of the west…
So is it me, or is it Alice,
days were gone and couldn’t notice
Grandma’ told me to be fair
but the heart of things to come will not take another turn,
fifty steps along the rhyme may not spill the fairy’s tail
nor the pockets full of gold
and the hundred sixty something of the words I could have told;
Alice darling,
are we really getting old?
the story stands, the hippie hands, with tattoos at the ends,
a suburb house with funny trees
two kids and a dog called Steve and a cat we gave no name…
Is it me or is it Alice,
that we want to start anew
getting young is not for lonesome but for all the very few,
killing me and killing you
giving birth to someone new….