Where roses talk and rabbits walk
upon two feet with waistcoats,
where springtime yawns and caterpillars
puff their wisdom in heavy smoke swirls,
where beasts roam and the rabbit’s home
is invaded by an overlarge visitor,
that is where you’ll find her,
my Alice, perched upon a mushroom,
lost once again in a world where I don’t belong.
Alice, oh, Alice,
your shoes the size of thimbles,
much too young to drift
so far from my open palm.
Alice, oh, Alice,
do not forget,
when your hair sticks to your skin with wet, that
the Dodo is a fool
and the Dormouse is a drunk,
the Hatter is a madman
and you, my love,
lie face down in the gutter
in the middle of Buchanan street,
sipping your fantasies
from an old storm drain.