I sell dreams and memories at the marketplace,
In a back alley of this bustling city
We set up our stalls at noon, or 3, or we don't set up at all
Every third Sunday, or second Saturday
Amid the leather rings and pastel postcards and records,
Of artist that have yet to be,
I stand against an old brick wall with a hat at my feet
"Buy a dream, sweetest of black cherries,
Dripping waterfalls and lovers' gazes,"
I chant throughout the day.
I've got a little notepad with a magic pen,
They draw a circle and they see
Confused and drunk they sway before me,
Hooked on whatever plays behind their eyelids
They touch, taste, smell, hear, whatever I wish them to
"Buy a memory, repressed or treasured, melancholy extra,
3 quid for a memory"
Therapists have sent weary patrons traveling far and wide to me
I see their suspicious eyes as they throw money my way,
Some regulars come to me as druggies,
Some need me more than others,
They leave me bright-eyed but weary,
I never give a fantasy for free.