My ghost balances on inclined planes,
he perches himself heavenward.
Held together only by good weather,
but can't help to go out into the rain.
If by three o'clock he has not yet come down,
Half past the hour and he's nowhere to be found.
Then by four he'll be floating around on me.
My ghost has more than trouble with comprehension of some scientists.
Condescending his way down
to the center of the earth,
He couldn't help but to catch a glimpse,
If by three o'clock he has not yet come down,
Half past the hour and he's nowhere to be found.
Then by four he'll be floating around on me.
And on his way down
he caught a spark and burst into flames.
A rough landing brought forth complications
at the baggage claim.
When we're released,
when we've sunk our precious teeth into apples with sad faces and blemishes.
1...2...3... what's happening to me?
If by three o'clock he has not yet come down,
Half past the hour and he's nowhere to be found.
Then by four he'll be floating around on me.