Between the pages of a book,
I’m young or old or cat or crook,
I’m eating leaves that taste of sweets,
Delicious feasts of country meats,

Roaring fires and kicking boots,
Dry-cleaned, crisp and pristine suits,
Flowers hang from ceiling beams,
Fairies come to dine on dreams,

Pan sits by a wishing well,
Drinking red wine from a shell,
Tying saint’s hair to his harp,
A matted hairball by his heart,

Giant dragons made from petals,
Cough up orbs of precious metals,
And as some cherubs hum a tune,
An antique teapot marries a spoon,

Rosaries that hang from trees,
Forever tangled in the breeze,
Bark that’s covered in Russian lacquer,
Paper trees inscribed with Kafka,

And so I go there to a place,
Where rain is scented and falls from lace,
And in the morning I smell the dew,
It is the finest French Perfume.