Call me a medicine man,
and yeah, I'll be there for you sure,
dedicated to you only,
to help the one without a cure.

    Once I step inside your heart
    you'll begin to doze off,

and those shaky hands will be soothed
while letting your head rock to and fro; can't be helped.
You'd be my tiny little sleepyhead
holding that little dose in your palm

    and you'll soon wander off
    deep into the neverland of your own version,

forgetful of human senses:
the striking smell, the taste to savour,
the sound the music that is ever whimsical,
the bright light and the dim dark.

And I reckon you already like it
all surrounded by the forgetfulness
—the numbing sensations nullifying your will to rise,
and the pleasure finds shelter within you.

    Then in your dream
    you start to want me more,

    not knowing the impending consequences
    of forgetting all about yourself,

of drowning
further into the river
that we all call the sorrow,
and of falling faster and farther

until you know nowhere to return.
I call out "Wakey-wakey," then,
prying open your eyes and every doors
that'll lead you outside with haste

—the light shines upon your pupils
still drowned in tears,
bewildered, with your legs wobbling.
Yet you're no longer my sleepyhead anyway,

    so walk on, off with you,
    carry on with your stiff legs

    —though you pretty much look like
    you'll need a stick just to stand upright -

    and do come see me
    if you ever need me again.