Oh, my baby, my little one How romantic it could be To climb the sky Walking on a stair of stars. That shining blue.
And build a hamac of clouds between the south and the north of the half moon I will love you again and again.
I hang my head like a snowflake man in a burning sun. Because I'm my own ghost. I'm really dead, this time. I'm dead like the corpses in their six feet under graves.
How romantic it could be to climb the sky in a hamac made of clouds.
In a hamac made of clouds my little one.
Hamac made of clouds. My little one. Yes, a hamac made of clouds.
My baby, my little one. My baby, my little one. A hamac made of clouds. My little one.