Paper Wings

1.

Oh the city is a machine,

all its streets are conveyor belts.

I have secret dreams that are green

they’re dreams that can only be felt.

Chorus:

So I fly with my paper wings

fly to where wild butterflies sing;

over grey and uniform seas

to the land of do as I please.

2.

And I fly as fantasy flies

cross the crumpled newspaper skies,

blazing deserts covered with frost

looking for a dream that I lost.

Chorus2:

Yes I fly with my paper wings,

pulled by happiness on a string

through the night times glitter and black

to the land of never look back.