Piles of bears and piles of trucks
Missile children with spinach in their teeth
Meeting the days as they come
The force of Bambi, the breeze on the fur
I had to twist his arm a little I'll admit
Bambi is up on the ocean, up on the roof
In a forest glade filled with flowers
In the back of a truck, eyelids batting
And we are on the brink of sleep now
Seeing ghosts at the side of the road
As we go in the milky cartoon cold