When the polar ice caps melt, my recording studio will rise up like an ark, and I'll float off into the drowned world like a character from a J.G. Ballard novel.

It's poetry in motion, when she turned her tender eyes to me.

It isn't cool to abuse the ability to swing.

She blinded me with science and failed me in geometry.

Etch out the future on your own design.

So I'll set a cycle in motion and pop it into record and I'll lay down a drum pattern, a bass line, a keyboard and guitar part, and once the groove is going I launch into the song and sing my song over the top.

While I'm impressed with the length of those legs, she's not an intellectual giant.