There’s a paper moon in the chimney And a blue dog under the stairs He’s chewing holes in tomorrow While the wallpaper grows little hairs I traded my shoes for a shadow And my shadow ran off with the rain Now the telephone whispers in circles And the circles keep calling my name Come down, come down The ceiling is learning to fly Come round, come round There’s a staircase asleep in the sky I met a small king in the garden With a scorpion sewn to his sleeve He said, “Nothing belongs to the living Except what the dying believe” So we painted our names on the windows Then shattered the windows with song The pieces looked just like the heavens So nobody knew they were wrong Come down, come down The ceiling is learning to fly Come round, come round There’s a staircase asleep in the sky There are wolves at the edge of the morning Counting stars in a cigarette tin They say every door opens outward But I’ve always been looking within My mother went home on a railway My father was smoke in a jar I slept with my head in a bucket And woke with my hands on a star Oh, nobody knows me So everybody does I’m whatever you’re seeing When you’ve forgotten what was The sun wears a crown made of tin foil The moon keeps a knife in her shoe And God is a child in the hallway Drawing pictures that look just like you We’ll build us a house out of mirrors With no proper windows or walls Where everyone sees what they came for And nobody sees who calls Come down, come down The ceiling has started to burn Come round, come round Every wheel has another return There’s a beautiful hole in the daylight Where the sensible people won’t go We’ll plant little bells in the graveyard And wait for the dead things to grow Then the king and the fool trade their faces And the wolf wears the shepherd’s old coat While a choir of invisible children Sings a hymn from the back of my throat Don’t follow me, darling, I’m nowhere Don’t trust me, I’m telling the truth I’m only the crack in the mirror That remembers the shape of your youth Come down, come down The ceiling is learning to fly Come round, come round There’s a staircase asleep in the sky And if morning should ask where we’ve wandered Tell morning we never were there Just a paper moon in the chimney And a blue dog combing his hair
