Make your own free website on Tripod.com

SURREAL SEASON

A wind-blown Wizard, lost in a Blizzard,
can't find his place in Time.
Roaming the city, he finds no pity.
The Blizzard is borne in his mind.

A tropic Typhoon, shouts to the Moon,
mangles the beaches and trees,
with rain, like a knife,sharpened by strife,
and a wild Wind ripping the Seas.

Chorus
Earth's spinning around,
and we're glued to the ground,
like little toy figures in scenes.
Very few know the Wizard who snows,
or the Typhoon ripping the Seas.
It's lovers alone, though chilled to the bone,
who keep on singing in tune.
Clinging together, in spite of the weather,
in Love's little wind-blown cocoon.

On an average day, we work and we play,
and fret about prices of cheese,
or the coffee-bean's cost. We feel like we're lost,
and the Wizard is starting to freeze.

Seasons are fleet; the flow of the street
seems to whittle the crowds to their knees.
It's all just a quizzer; the fate of the Wizard;
and the Typhoon's Dance on the Seas.

Chorus
Earth's spinning around,
and we're glued to the ground,
like little toy figures in scenes.
Very few know the Wizard who snows,
or the Typhoon ripping the Seas.
It's lovers alone, though chilled to the bone,
who keep on singing in tune,
clinging together, in spite of the weather,
in Love's little wind-blown Cocoon.

©-"Future Folk" Music-Betty Curtis-2001


BACK