I'm sick,
can't you tell?
I thought I knew the way,
to heaven from hell.
The Floyd asked me some sunny day,
if I would be the one to lead the way.
I gallantly nodded,
and began my march.
The band sent their tunes,
sharing melodies, dreams and dunes.
Reminding us, of the time..
That it was time to march, or say goodbye.
The butters fled-
the butters flew.
The butterflies knew just what to do.
Tore apart every ounce, other than here,
holding close the golden moment dear.
For now we have,
our heart back true.
And the butterflies looked at the hummingbird,
as it flapped its wing and shed it's tune.
The wings flapped and the air blew true,
carrying the waft of pollen making the darting shining birds swoon.
They carried their package, and on they left.
The butterflies job was done.
And then it slept.
The boy still from that day, marches on in it's own sort of way..
To know our heaven is to know thyself,
but to know this is to know our heaven isn't meant-
for anyone else.
