Into White

Tired. Tired. Tired. Tired. Tired. Tired. Tired.

Possibly the best thing about Sundays is finishing work, then hitting the takeaway on Church Street where they do all 12" pizzas for £3 (which maintain the crucial balance between being astoundingly cheap but still astoundingly good), before heading home and sticking a film on. At the end of this ritual, I wind up all sleepy, and tonight's no exception. Time to finish the job off with a lullabyesque bit of Cat Stevens, in which he describes how he constructed a domicile largely out of staple foods. How he got planning permission off the council for that, I'll never know.

I built my house from barley rice
Green pepper walls and water ice
Tables of paper wood, windows of light
And everything emptying into white.

A simple garden, with acres of sky
A Brown-haired dogmouse
If one dropped by
Yellow Delanie would sleep well at night
With everything emptying into white.

A sad blue-eyed drummer rehearses outside
A black spider dancing on top of his eye
Red-legged chicken stands ready to strike
And everything emptying into white.

I built my house from barley rice
Green pepper walls and water ice
And everything emptying into white