Panic! At The Disco

Our daydream spills from my gold head
Breaks free of my wooden neck
Left a nod over sleeping waves
Like bobbing bait for bathing cod
Floating flocks of candle swans
Slowly drift across wax ponds
The men all played along to marching drums
And boy did they have fun behind the sea
They sang, ???so our matching legs are marching clocks
And we're all too small to talk to god
Yes, we're all too smart to talk to god"
Toast the fine folks casting silver crumbs
To us from the dock.