I wake up from this fantasy
decide real life is not for me
and go back to the fantasy.

You only get nine lives and it doesn't matter if you're dumb or smart
the heart knows not of this

to touch upon
so brief and then we're gone
and on and on until the last of
life is done

I cross my fingers
make a plea
click my heels
and think of Dorothy
another
fantasy

but we're all a bit of
the yellow brick

the growl, the rust,
the straw they built this city with

the trust
must be real or else no deal.

I'm marking time with eyeliner
sitting in the diner on the shore
with Dinah
and time is stalking me which is not a
fantasy
I'm talking reality
which
on occasion bites.