Sitting up late at night I tiptoe through the darkness. Cold as Hell, black as spades, Aware of my immediate surroundings In my place, I escape Up into my hideout Hiding from everyone. My friends all say "Dave, you're mental anyway." Drift into a deeper state, I stalk the cobwebbed stairways, Dirt grits beneath my feet. The stair creaks, I precariously sneak. Hypnosis guides my hand, I slip-slide through the walkways, Sit in granny's rocking chair. Memories are whirling by Reminisce in the attic Lucretia waits impatiently. Cobwebs make me squint The cobra so eloquently glints, Moonbeams surge through the sky The crystal ball is energised Surely that, like the cat waiting Lucretia rocks away.
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