It may be Sunday out there,
but in here it's ninety seventy-four, in here behind the bedroom door where the lights burn bright like that disco ball that blew our minds last night.
it's a noughts and crosses kind of a day, we make our marks and gurgle away and marks is what we are, cosmic stains on the universe, washed by the winds of countless stars, strands upon strands where each moment stands alone, a space of our own in a place full of plenty, but it's 'seventy-four behind the bedroom door and I don't care because she's so much more than the wandering rings that sing to themselves, in the galaxy we are pixies and elves and someone else is stacking our shelves, we play party games and if we are cosmic stains, so what,
what we are is what we've got and that's 'seventy-four behind the bedroom door.

In time, if there is an in, we shall strip off the moonbeams that dance on our skin and begin, to gurgle again, to take one more spin, to ride some and more behind the door back in 'seventy-four.

It may be Sunday out there, churchy hats and churchy hair, but where the lights burn bright behind the bedroom door it will always be nineteen seventy-four.