There’s a hooked rug on the floor here
Two dumb paintings on the wall,
A piano in the common room
But I’m not here at all.
Me? I’m out in Coney Island
(Or on Bleeker Street at dawn)
Lost in someone else’s childhood,
Tryin’ to keep on keepin’ on.
But they want me to tell stories
To pretend their lies are real
When they say they’ll let me outta here
I go un-huh that’s no deal
Although i’m sick of playing pixies
And i’m sick of all the pills
And Dylan was the 60s
And their tv gives me chills
So I talk to all the squirrels
And pretend that they talk back
Stick my tongue out at the doctor
Cause I know he’s just a quack
And I write these silly verses
‘Cause there’s not much else to do
While I sit tight on the lawn chairs
Humming… tangled up in blue
The Classical Deinhardt 