Perfect masks of imperfection,
premonitions of cotton tailed blue bunnies
hopping down Guadalupe Street.
Overrun the cactus trees and then
trample the hay they call grass;
because hand and hand, the
cotton tailed blue bunnies and I,
we’ll paint the city black and we’ll
take it back – so what’s the point in fighting?
And don’t tell me I’m mad, because I’m
entirely sane and you’re just the one
who can’t see they’re real.