I fly through the good-for-nothing-days
There are plenty of them
Or in any event
In more than a thousand different-formed ways
I hide the keys and travel my bed
And dream of white little things instead
My favourite dress, my favourite chair
And one-way traffic in small picture trail
In the most whitest colour
The clouds will be too
The rest may look yellow
The world become bleu
As long as I choose the colour,
Then I’m alright