Through a tiny rip in the fabric of time, the 1970’s slipped a tendril of psychodelia into 1998.
Marty had written, “Pay attention to the little voices. I do whatever they tell me!”
The voices are mumbling to me
But they’re not speaking very clearly
Speak they of towels?
And what are those howls?
It must be the wind in the tree…
We’ve all missed this very strange plot,
For tablets we no more have got.
That tree has its OWLS
And some of my towels,
Wait, now it’s beginning to trot.
If Marlene stays inside her head,
And if I can use mine instead
That big bright green sky,
(Where elephants fly)
Will kill all the dragons stone dead!
Marlene, it’s now safe to come out
Although all the hippos are stout.
I’ve saved you again
From the sound of Big Ben.
But kiss let the butterflies out!
everything seems normal from here.
kiss wrote – the confusion is persistent…
The butterflies hold up the sky
The elephants pissed in my eye
The dragons live still
They’re not easy to kill
But since when did fat hippos fly?