The toad road licked my wheels like a sabre
Winds of the marsh lightly blew
Stone jars stacked with stars on her shoulders
Hunters of pity she slew.
Chariots of silk she rode
Stallions of gold she owned.
A mad Mage with a maid on his eyebrows
Hunteth the realm for a God
Who could teach him the craft of decanting
The glassy entrails of a frog.
The Bard of my birth with his ballet
Walked the wild worlds in the chase
For the black chested canary
Who as a moose can sing bass.
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by Paul Oakenfold, Matt Goss