Brian Eno

In the haze of the morning, china sits on eternity
And the opium farmers sell dreams to obscure fraternities
On the horizon the curtains are closing
Down in the orchard the aunties and uncles play their games
(like it seems they always have done)
In the blue distance the vertical offices bear their names
(like it seems they always have done)
Clocks ticking slowly, dividing the day up
These poor girls are such fun they know what God gave them fingers for
(to make percussion over solos)