The path you tread is narrow and the trumpets sheer and very high
The ravens all are watching from a vantage point nearby
Apprehension creeping like a tube train up your spine
Will the tight rope reach the end, will the final couplet rhyme
And it's high time, Cymbaline
Please wake me

A butterfly with broken wings is falling by your side
The ravens all are closing in, there's nowhere you can hide
Your manager and agent are both busy on the phone
Selling coloured photographs to magazines back home
And it's high time, Cymbaline
Please wake me

The lions converging where you stand,
They must have moved the picture plain
The leaves are heavy 'round your feet,