Time, all the long red lines, that take control   Of all the smoke-like streams that flow into your dreams   That big blue open sea, that can't be crossed      That can't be climbed, just born between   Oh, the two white lines, distant Gods an' faded signs   Of all those blinking lights, you had to pick the one tonight      Holes, dug by little moles, angry jealous spies   Got telephones for eyes, come to you as friends   All those endless ends, that can't be tied      Oh, they make me laugh, and always make me cry   Till they drop like flies, and sink like polished stones   Of all the stones I throw, how does that old song go?   How does that old song go?      Bands, those funny little plans, that never work quite right