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.