With yellow, red and roomy food, and quivered
|
crouching on a golden cushion
|
undressed himself to disappear
|
through an infinity of pleasure
|
and smiled to free the running me
|
with "Am I my brother's keeper?"
|
his meek hand on devils gloves
|
shaping running blood.
|
|
The prophecy, to recreate the truth
|
in visions of a seasonal mood
|
in truth, the only sight he saw
|
lay hidden in the bathroom door
|
and spat on the rug
|
as high is high, so low is low
|
and that's the end of it.
|
|
-----------------
|
Rooftop In A Thunderstorm
|
| Syd Barret |
