I am a wild child, a kid who wears love-heart sunglasses,
Wants to be famous, I am the freak,
Generation Y and my forehead is crowned in paint.
I am a magician, born rare, raised amongst rabbits,
But I so often run with the Hare, and down rabbit-holes
I’ve tumbled into sequin-forests and licked the Moon’s pits.
I wear top-hats, I crumble like a Fool, I’m an ace in the hole,
And they get me to pull out my nails at freakshows,
I wear harlequin faces, clown feet, beware my smile, I can fold,
I can kneel, like a foal yelps for a mother’s nuzzle,
I am every bus lining the streets, they blacken with pitch,
I am magick, whiter than dust and more invisible than a bubble,
I can once in a while subdue my poet-tongue with a lute,
And tell my previous lovers that my heart’s not fit to prick,
I’ll give em’ the rum, drift into the sky, give em’ the boot,
I am wiser than oaks on the Mountains of Ararat,
I speak in tongues, Berbers and dance the Meke
They dab my tongue in the stars, with the eyes of cats
I am a Generation Y Freak, foreign and funny, these are the languages I speak.