Just a little thought in the head of the oneWith the sunburnt cheeks and the eyes to the groundMaking earwaxed tongue-tied gutter soundsThinking of the lost rib, dialing the indelibleThinking the unthinkable-no one's homeAnd the eyes say I don't believe we've metI don't believe you've had the privilegeI don't believe we've metWhen the wind blows coldAnd the eyes of the child grow oldWhen the erratic conga rises and fallsAbove the faithful metronomeYou can take me back to the gravestoneSee her strain from the weight of the globeSpinning around his assumptions-barefoot and tight-lippedHe in his favourite chair blowing his world aroundFirst she's Beatrice, then she's a pumpkinThen she's a faded leaf in a book on his pantry shelfThe head sees the hand play with the ring in the pocketAnd the head knows the hand knows the ring is as roundAs the tear-soaked shoulder in a room in another townThe ring is getting heavy and so is the crownWhich she drags to the chair feebly to keep the swelling downWhen the bird in the bush is worth two in the handAnd the empty cage holds the empty manThe bird keeps flying from the Orgoglian risingAnd the phone keeps ringing and the phone keeps ringingAnd the ring keeps slipping and the phoneAnd the phone keeps on ringingAnd he's thinking about the one who got away