Tell me the windows aren’t really sweating.
Under the hostile glare of the sun,
With the soft breaths of the moon
In the castle perched on top of the gnarly oak tree
At the end of the block
Where children play dress-up and make believe
In borrowed old dresses,
The best stolen Sunday clothes and missing wool socks

Tell me the hunters in helicopters aren’t really chasing jokes across the flats.
What am I falling into?
A darker, dreamier state of mind?
No matter how hard you try to mask it or explain it
With books filled with fairy tales or complicated equations

Tell me what your saying isn’t really true.
I’m not going to believe you anyway