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lyricist: the FURT M81 I spoke some childish, magical words to the rusty tin biplane hanging from the ceiling light. It would transform into a spaceship at night and head for the moon. We need stories like those in picture books. I turned off the lights, lay down, and tried to think of what would happen next. The ship swung by the moon and headed out of the system. A drizzle of meteor dust fell on the rusty iron ground of Mars. After passing a zebra-like star, I saw an ice float. After the overturned star, I saw the god of the sea. I waved goodbye to Pluto. It would transform into a spaceship at night and travel. We need stories like those in picture books. The tin biplane flew off like a rocket, flying over the Oort Cloud and through Orion's arms. The rusty tin biplane hanging from the ceiling light is now drifting and swimming in the darkness between the stars. Heading out of the galaxy. I would watch a fantasy that had disappeared far away. There is no warmth like in a dream where you appear, only the cold of reality without you. At night, we transform into a spaceship and head for Earth. Even if we search for traces of you, there is not even oxygen here. At night, we transform into a spaceship and return to Earth. We need stories like those in picture books.