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You wrote a book of adventures and kept it on a shelf,

sealed away with secret plots and plans to escape.

Robots made of pots and pans and monsters made of felt,

You bound them all up in a book and left them on a shelf.

The seasons turned and tumbled, the golden years go by,

Nothing that we did was wrong, sordid, or unsound.

The dust in the corners of our world would pile high,

And then you died and I was forced to put you in the ground.

And then I went to that house that used to be a home,

And then I ate my breakfast, tied my tie and ran my life.

And in clearing out the cupboards I chanced upon that tome,

And remembered - remembered you, my adventurous wife.

If only I could fly away, and leave it all behind.

Coz the pots and pans are moving and the robots are alive.

And monsters made of felt arise, are marching through my mind,

And the world is softly buzzing with the buzzing of a hive.

So I'll sail away from all this, and see uncharted shores,

The places where no man has ever tread,

I'll sail away from nay-sayers, from bureaucrats and bores,

And sail with you, the lover in my head.

And the skies will be blue,

And the clouds will be white,

And the winds will be fair,

And we will both be beautiful again.