Flower power in the 60s, she dreamed of times, times had passed. Times were never, never enough to dream, dream. Keep dreaming, dream big.

You are a cloud, take shelter. You are the sky, you are blue. Miles away, so so far. So fucking far.

Kiss my feet, tussle my skirt. I’m female and I’m not ready to be messed with. I’m a child of the 70s.

You are an angel, flying down. Flying, flying, flying, down.

She dreamed of times but times had passed, they had passed. Twists and turns, twists and turns.

Sleep my child.

You are of the eighties, scream to Madonna, dance to MJ, and cry to John Lennon’s death.

Peace is never permanent.

Toss a bit of Spice in there, that’s nice now. You’ve arrived in the 90s.

Don’t miss the shuttle for the S-Club, don’t be too noughty for me now.

And we’re hurling closer and closer to the year 3000, and she has reached the brink of her peak, little Bo Peep.

Riddle my riddle, tiddle my tiddle. We don’t know what is happening but we know we’ve come this far.

They told me the epitome of wrong was to write stories, stories about the sleep.

But we’re lost in-between dreams and she became they and you and we don’t know who.

Wake up, wake up, wake the fuck up. When will you ever?

You have officially reached 2018 and she, she will never learn.

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