The alarm clock misses its beat
Our feet touch and we talk of dreams
The meaning of our sleep it seems
Wrapped in paper, left by the keep
In the park where you showed me headstones
The old bones, uncovered and moved to one side
The pride of civilisation, they cried
We lied, and sang of Me and Mrs Jones
Unknown to another generation
Later or earlier, after, before, or in between
Unseen by angels and painters, redeemed
By atheists, agnostics, and the freighter
Which funnels the flow along the leat
