Pigs Might Fly

I always was a story-teller, I always will be one true.
I remember the time I made up that story about the pigs that flew.

Long long ago, wrought upon terrible times.
lived men in a regular grind.
Each day was similar to the next.
Wonderment was a taboo subject.

Speaking of the flowers, raised the eyebrows,
Gazing at the moon, got you shoved.
Loved ones deceptively embraced,
Truth caused pain, only lies gave solace.

Everyone wore that infernal mask everywhere.
Taking care not to show care.
Green mists of jealousy and hatred made every moment hazy,
But why, Why indeed would you believe me?

For I always was a story-teller and I always will be one. True.
I remember the time I made up that story about the pigs that flew.

The story didn't go down that well at the time too I remember.
People thought I was quite mad calling May, December.
But I have seen the world, Tasted it's lips.
No the damn thing doesn't taste like chocolate chips.

Call me a liar, If you will.
For you joy may not be the king of everything.
I am quite particular about being joyous.
It's the kind of thing that keeps me quite buoyant.

My feet are burnt now with walking on dreamy shores.
Yet I can't start cooling my feet in the truish waters.
It's the dreams I am sure about.
Then I wonder why reality has so much clout.

I am hardly the one to blame

For I always was a story-teller, I always will be one true.
I remember the time I made up that story about the pigs that flew.

I bumped into reality the other day,
I shivered, for her gaze was cold.
We exchanged glances, She fell for me I am sure.
then she left abruptly, Locked herself on the other side of destiny
Now she tells me it's my stories that landed her behind that door.

Today my pigs blot out the sky
Causing men to pause and open their eyes.
They halt discovering wonderment.
I welcome it like something godsend.
She is still locked away across that door.
Now I send pigs flying to the other side to check on her evermore.