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A gentle song blows softly through the acroamatic clouds, across the troposphere, and winds its way down the slip-stream to you…

Cloudy, the sky is gray and white and cloudy
Sometimes I think it’s hanging down on me

And it’s a hitchhike a hundred miles
I’m a rag a muffin child
Pointed finger-painted smile
I left my shadow waiting down the road for me a while

Cloudy, my thoughts are scattered and they’re cloudy
They have no borders, no boundaries

They echo and they swell
From Tolstoy to Tinker Bell
Down from Berkeley to Carmel
Got some pictures in my pocket and a lot of time to kill

Hey sunshine, I haven’t seen you in a long time
Why don’t you show your face and bend my mind?

These clouds stick to the sky
Like floating questions, why?
And they linger there to die
They don’t know where they are going, and, my friend, neither do I

Cloudy, cloudy
Cloudy, cloudy
Cloudy, cloudy