The sweat from my brow is racing the shadows of a late evening sun
and somehow they both drip into the tightening grip of the night.
Though the night's still to come,we all know that it murders the sun every day
and gets away with it.
I'd like to sit in the gallery with Winehouse's Valerie and tend to her needs,if the night feeds on the sun why shouldn't I have some fun too.

If I flew into the eye of I don't know when why,would I know where I'm at,would it matter to me if I was where I'd be or in some other place I've yet to see.
Has the cuckoo flown, after been shown the error of his ways,does he feel the sweat of his endless days in the madness of a madness of being out of phase.

The sweat drips from the end of my nose which I blow
and the devil may go where the fancy will take him
I will sit and revolve while the world spins off with any resolve I may have had,not to go quite mad.

And the hammering in my head jabbers on,like some crazy woodpecker that titters at dawn and cracks open its beak to sneak into a tree
will I,or the woodpecker ever be free
does it matter to you,would it matter to me if I knew?

The day finally goes,falling under the spell ,and the bell for a midnight tolls
I roll my eyes looking skyward and there's nothing to see
except an image of me and a woodpecker
in a tree.