And I will build
A pagoda made of crisp bread

My window sill
Is getting wet

And I am trying to think of nothing
Trying to think of no-one
But it's proving rather hard

You are the raindrop in the cloud
The rock in the rolling avalanche
And I am having lunch

The sound of rain
And eleven types of thunder

Wobbling begins
On the fourth floor of my pagoda

And there is splashing from the gutter
Gurgling round the house
But I'm trying to block it out

There's been no landslide at all
An old supporting wall
Collapsed and blocked the road
My trembling hands
A pagoda made of crispbread

This endless rain
Cancelling time

A careless fit of coughing
My pagoda is collapsing
It seems to take an age

Like a culture in decline
A paleolithic ram's horn
That now begins to sound

And I am trying to think of nothing
Trying to think of no-one
But it's proving rather hard

You are the raindrop in the cloud
The rock in the rolling avalanche
And I am having lunch