I have flown to star-stained heights on bent and battered wings
in search of mythical kings, mythical kings.
Sure that everything of worth is in the sky and not the earth
and I never learned to make my way
down, down, down where the iguanas play
I have ridden comet tails in search of magic rings
to conjure mythical kings, mythical kings.
Singing scraps of angel-song, high is right and low is wrong
I never taught myself to give
down, down, down where the iguanas live
Astral walks I try to take; I sit and throw I Ching.
Aesthetic bards and tarot cards are the cords to which I cling.
Don't break my strings (I wish you would)
or I will fall (I wish I could, I wish I could).
Curse the mind that mounts the clouds in search of mythical kings,
and only mystical things, mystical things.
Cry for the soul that will not face,
the body as an equal place;
and I never learned to touch for real,
or feel the things iguanas feel
down, down, down where they play.