The path you tread is narrow
And the drop is shear and very high.
The ravens all are watching
From a vantage point nearby.
Apprehension creeping
Like a tube-train up your spine.
Will the tightrope reach the end?
Will the final couplet rhyme?

And it's high time,
Cymbaline.
It's high time,
Cymbaline.
Please wake me.

A butterfly with broken wings
Is falling by your side.
The ravens all are closing in
And 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.
It's high time
Cymbaline
Please wake me

The lines converging where you stand,
They must have moved the picture plane.
The leaves are heavy around your feet.
You hear the thunder of the train.
And suddenly it strikes you
That they're moving into range.
Doctor Strange is always changing size;

And it's high time,
Cymbaline.
It's high time
Cymbaline.
Please wake me.

And it's high time
Cymbaline
It's high time
Cymbaline
Please wake me