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Cymbaline
The path you tread is narrowAnd the drop is shear and very high.The ravens all are watchingFrom a vantage point nearby.Apprehension creepingLike a tube-train up your spine.Will the tightrope reach the end?Will the final couplet rhyme?And it's high time,Cymbaline.It's high time,Cymbaline.Please wake me.A butterfly with broken wingsIs falling by your side.The ravens all are closing inAnd there's nowhere you can hide.Your manager and agentAre both busy on the phone,Selling coloured photographsTo magazines back home.And it's high timeCymbaline.It's high timeCymbalinePlease wake meThe lines converging where you stand,They must have moved the picture plane.The leaves are heavy around your feet.You hear the thunder of the train.And suddenly it strikes youThat they're moving into range.Doctor Strange is always changing size;And it's high time,Cymbaline.It's high timeCymbaline.Please wake me.And it's high timeCymbalineIt's high timeCymbalinePlease wake me
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