We're sitting on rooftops under those cornucopias
Spitting two ways again the wind, against the window.
Every man has his dream, when as young boys they would sigh in their sleep
Every man wants to see all between white lines.
Now the wind spitting two ways
there is no where I'd rather be
I am one to believe that as we grow old our escaped dreams
always find us in need of searching under every white lines