There's a haze on the skyline, to wish me on my way.
  And there's a note on the telephone --- some roses on a
  tray.
  And the motorway's stretching right out to us all,
  as I pull on my old wings --- one white duck
  on your wall.
  Isn't it just too damn real?
  I'll catch a ride on your violin --- strung upon your bow.
  And I'll float on your melody --- sing your chorus soft
  and low.
  There's a picture-view postcard to say that I called.
  You can see from the fireplace, one white duck
  on your wall.
  Isn't it just too damn real?
    So fly away Peter and fly away Paul --- from the
  finger-tip ledge of contentment.
  The long restless rustle of high-heeled boots calls.
  And I'm probably bound to deceive you after all.
    Something must be wrong with me and my brain ---
  if I'm so patently unrewarding.
  But my dreams are for dreaming and best left that
  way --- and my zero to your power of ten equals
  nothing at all.
    There's no double-lock defense; there's no chain on my door.
  I'm available for consultation,
  But remember your way in is also my way out, and
  love's four-letter word is no compensation.
    Well, I'm the Black Ace dog-handler: I'm a waiter on
  skates --- so don't you jump to your foreskin conclusion.
  Because I'm up to my deaf ears in cold breakfast trays ---
  to be cleared before I can dine on your sweet Sunday
  lunch confusion.