Many of us really do not
Like writing for fun
So we try our best to have some innocent fun
Expressing our adulthood
In the cries of the night

Some say it's the moon
Some say it's the moon
Some say it's an eclipse
At noon, we all sleep under the brainchild of God
Truant of the pernicious nature of the Sun
And innocuous nature of the moon

Many of us really do not
Like traveling for fun
So we try our best to have some innocent fun
Expressing our riches
In the cries of the night in the arms of a local stranger

Some say it's harmful wine
Some say it's trusted wine
Some say he's well endowed with the same perception
Call it similitude, we border on the art of crying souls
Flourishing their wands at the slightest presence

Many of us really do not all this magic
Try sleeping with your eyes open, and you'll find the beauty
Of closing your eyes to the blue moon that will soon turn
I do not hope to turn