The clown made a million on his own
He chose to waste it on a paper kite of some sort
Saw it in himself of course
The few, the far and in between his faded armour

If he could only make it fly
To the moonlit, starless sky
To the winds unknown
As he lay there prone
December's son is gone

Burnt wax is running down his face
Don't seem to notice as it burns; his senses regained
Took it upon himself of course
The end for which he failed to sign up in his ardour

If he could only make it fly
To the moonlit, starless sky
To the winds unknown
As he lay there prone
As the violet shone

If he could only make it fly
To the moonlit, starless sky
To the winds unknown
As he lay there prone
December's son is gone

As he lay back and drift away
Stares at nothing 'til it turns into an image
We take our leave and all too soon
They close the curtains, turn the light off in the anteroom