Nothing At All

So fly away Peter and fly away Paul
From the fingertip ledge of contentment
Well, the long restless rustle of high-heeled boots call
And I'm probably bound to decieve you after all

Something must be wrong with me and my brain
If I'm so patently unrewarding
But my dreams are for dreaming and best left that way
And my zero to your power of ten equals nothing at all

There's no double-lock defense; there's no chain on my door
I'm available for consultation
But remember your way in is also my way out
And love's four letter word is no compensation

Well, I'm the Black Ace dog-handler; I'm a waiter on skates
So don't you jump to your foreskin conclusion
Because I'm up to my deaf ears in cold breakfast trays
To be cleared before I can dine on your sweet Sunday lunch confusion.

(words by Ian Anderson)