The Nothing Song - Fuchsia

Call this the nothing song, the nothing man am I

I dream of bowler-hatted men in clear blue skies

Sweet rain falling up instead of falling down

Make something of me if you will or turn around.

Cry die, dance tonight,

What’s yours is mine is yours by right

Call them the nothing men, the nothing words are theirs

They like Sunday hats and walk about in pairs

I’d like to be discreet, just in one sense of course

Or out with a lady doing a Viennese waltz.

I agree we never see the sense

We laugh at them as mother pours the tea

On Saturdays I wear my Sunday best

On Sundays stay in bed till two or three.

Song of the morning is ours at the sunrise.

Dream, floating on a silver shoes out across candlewick skies.

Clean light washing the sleep from our eyes, our eyes.

She is nothing girl he a nothing man

They go out for walks but never find the time

We play another song but for a choir

Led by a briarwood flute played by a Jesuit friar.

I agree we never see the sense

We laugh at them as mother pours the tea

I’m quite austere for one of my degree

But does the hatter really laugh with me?