This is it, this is my invitation,
Careless as bare skin, and blind as a squirming worm:
Now I am numb, come to Strawberry Fields.
O shut-eye, what is there here to fear?
I am no more than Morpheus, the offspring of Nyx, Nyx, Nyx,
My dreams are not real, and not much to touch.
This is my tree, it has branches, but nobody hangs there.
It is high as a kestrel, or low as a neap-tide, asleep.
It is bad, it is too bad, it is not too bad.
I will take the bus to Strawberry Fields, thus, thus.
Can you not come with me?
Argue, argue, I will not argue, I am not disagreeable.
Perhaps we will sing, perhaps it will be a burden.
It is no dump, you are just an accompanist.
You wonder, I wonder. It is only misunderstanding.
Strawberry Fields, it is no endeavour, forever.