I'm dressed up like Sir Mustard and I go

En route with a Lead Pipe to the Library.

While Mrs. Peacock twirls a thick white rope

In front of her blue gown obligatory.

And all the while, in spite of glaring gust

Of colours seen within my mirror's frame,

Everything I look out on is just

A dull grey, wishing to be black and blamed.

My mind is white, white as a sheet that's all go,

And driven as a mainsail. Only it

Just wants to know how far to the next rainbow.

Sail on. Sail over seas of green that fit.

And when you dream, do dream in technicolor.

For if they're anything, what else are dreams for?