When I was younger and began diving into moss,
I heard whispers of a place where the hours flew on the wings of wandering albatross.
There, never would you find a sore thumb sticking out.
Or hear the name of the lovers who left you in sacred drought.
The misty morning fog could carry you to shore
Back just in time for the service of the church of locked doors
And I'm still waiting for my ticket in
And for that I have sinned