Martin Barre

We saw the heavens break and all the world go down to sleep
and rocks on mossy banks drip acid rain from craggy steeps
Saw fiery angels kiss the dawn
Wish you goodbye till further on
Will you still be there further on?

And troubled dynasties, like legions lost, have blown away
Hounds hard upon their heels call to their quarry --- wait and play
Before the last faint light has gone
Wish you goodbye till further on
Will you still be there further on?

The angry waves grow high --- cut icy teeth on northern shores
Brave fires that flicker, cough --- give way to winds
through broken doors
And with the last line almost drawn --- wish you goodbye till further on
Will you still be there further on?

Tomorrow is the one day I would change for a Monday
with freezing rains melting and no trains running
and sad eyes passing in windows flimsy
and my seat rocking from legs not quite matching
Got passport, credit cards, a plane that I'm catching
Black Sunday falls one day too soon

The taxi that takes me will be moving too quickly
My suitcases simply too full for the closing
of pants, shirts and kisses all packed in a hurry
Two best-selling paper backs chosen at random ---
no sign of sales-persons to whom I might hand them
Black Sunday falls one day too soon

And down at the airport are probably waiting
a few thousand passengers, overbooked seating
Time long suspended in transit-lounge traumas ---
connections broken and Special Branch waiting
conspicuously standing in holiday clothing
Black Sunday falls one day too soon

Pick up my feet and kick off my lethargy
Down to the gate with the old mood upon me
Get out and chase the small immortality
born in the minute of my next returning
Impatient feet tapping and cigarette burning
Homecoming one day too soon

And back at the house there's a grey sky a-tumbling
Milk bottles piling on door steps a-crumbling
Curtains all drawn and cold water plumbing
Notepaper scribbles I read unbelieving
Saying how sorry, how sad was the leaving
...one day too soon

Tomorrow is the one day I would change for a Monday
with freezing rains melting and no trains running
and sad eyes passing in windows flimsy
and my seat rocking from legs not quite matching
Got passport, credit cards, a plane that I'm catching
Black Sunday falls one day too soon

The taxi that takes me will be moving too quickly
My suitcases simply too full for the closing
of pants, shirts and kisses all packed in a hurry
Two best-selling paper backs chosen at random ---
no sign of sales-persons to whom I might hand them
Black Sunday falls one day too soon

And down at the airport are probably waiting
a few thousand passengers, overbooked seating
Time long suspended in transit-lounge traumas ---
connections broken and Special Branch waiting
conspicuously standing in holiday clothing
Black Sunday falls one day too soon

Pick up my feet and kick off my lethargy
Down to the gate with the old mood upon me
Get out and chase the small immortality
born in the minute of my next returning
Impatient feet tapping and cigarette burning
Homecoming one day too soon

And back at the house there's a grey sky a-tumbling
Milk bottles piling on door steps a-crumbling
Curtains all drawn and cold water plumbing
Notepaper scribbles I read unbelieving
Saying how sorry, how sad was the leaving
...one day too soon

Clear light on a slick palm
as I mis-deal the day
Slip the night from a shaved pack
make a marked card play
Call twilight hours down
from a heaven home
high above the highest bidder
for the good Lord's throne
In the wee hours I'll meet you
down by Dun Ringill ---
oh, and we'll watch the old gods play
by Dun Ringill
We'll wait in stone circles
'til the force comes through ---
lines joint in faint discord
and the stormwatch brews
a concert of kings
as the white sea snaps
at the heels of a soft prayer
whispered
In the wee hours I'll meet you
down by Dun Ringill ---
oh, and I'll take you quickly
by Dun Ringill.

Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust
An October's day, towards evening
Sweat embossed veins standing proud to the plough
Salt on a deep chest seasoning
Last of the line at an honest day's toil
Turning the deep sod under
Flint at the fetlock, chasing the bone
Flies at the nostrils plunder.

The Suffolk, the Clydesdale, the Percheron vie
with the Shire on his feathers floating
Hauling soft timber into the dusk
to bed on a warm straw coating.

Heavy Horses, move the land under me
Behind the plough gliding --- slipping and sliding free
Now you're down to the few
And there's no work to do
The tractor's on its way.

Let me find you a filly for your proud stallion seed
to keep the old line going.
And we'll stand you abreast at the back of the wood
behind the young trees growing
To hide you from eyes that mock at your girth,
and your eighteen hands at the shoulder
And one day when the oil barons have all dripped dry
and the nights are seen to draw colder
They'll beg for your strength, your gentle power
your noble grace and your bearing
And you'll strain once again to the sound of the gulls
in the wake of the deep plough, sharing.

Standing like tanks on the brow of the hill
Up into the cold wind facing
In stiff battle harness, chained to the world
Against the low sun racing
Bring me a wheel of oaken wood
A rein of polished leather
A Heavy Horse and a tumbling sky
Brewing heavy weather.

Bring a song for the evening
Clean brass to flash the dawn
across these acres glistening
like dew on a carpet lawn
In these dark towns folk lie sleeping
as the heavy horses thunder by
to wake the dying city
with the living horseman's cry
At once the old hands quicken ---
bring pick and wisp and curry comb ---
thrill to the sound of all
the heavy horses coming home.

In the shuffling madness
Of the locomotive breath
Runs the all time loser
Headlong to his death
Oh, he feels the pistons screaming
Steam breaking on his brow
Old Charlie stole the handle
And the train it won't stop going
No way to slow down

He sees his children jumpin’ off
At stations one by one
His woman and his best friend
In bed and having fun
So he's crawling down the corridor
On his hands and knees
Old Charlie stole the handle
And the train it won't stop going
No way to slow down

He hears the silence howling
Catches angels as they fall
And the all time winner
Has got him by the balls
Oh, he picks up Gideon's Bible
Open at page one
I think God, he stole the handle
And the train it won't stop going
No way to slow down

No way to slow down
No way to slow down
No way to slow down
No way to slow down

They said protect and you'll survive ---
(But our postman didn't call)
8lbs. of over-pressure wave seemed to glue him to the wall
They said protect and you'll survive

E.M.P. took out the radio ---
(And our milk-man didn't call)
Flash blinded by the pretty lights,
Didn't see his bottles fall
Or feel the warm black rain arrive

Big friendly cloud builds in the West
(And our dust-men haven't called)
They left the dual carriageway at a hundred miles an hour ---
A tail wind chasing them away

And in deep shelters lurk below, sub-regional control
Who sympathise but cannot help
To mend your body or your soul
Self-appointed guadians of the race with egg upon their face
When steady sirens sing all-clear they pop up,
Find nobody here

And so I watch two new suns spin ---
(Our paper man doesn't call)
Burnt shadow printed on the road --- now there's nothing there at all
They said protect and you'll survive

Meanwhile back in the year one,
When you belonged to no one,
You didn't stand a chance, son,
If your pants were undone.

'Cause you were bred, for humanity
And sold to society
One day you'll wake up, in the present day
A million generations removed from expectations
Of being who you really want to be.

Skating away, skating away, skating away,
On the thin ice of the new day

So as you push off from the shore,
Won't you turn your head once more
And make your peace with everyone.
For those who choose to stay
Will live just one more day,
To do the things they should've done.
And as you cross the wilderness,
Spinning in your emptiness
If you have to, pray.
Looking for a sign, that the universal minds
Has written you into the passion play.

Skating away, skating away, skating away
On the thin ice of the new day

And as you cross the circle line,
Well the ice wall creaks behind
You're a rabbit on the run.
And the silver splinters fly
In the corner of your eye,
Shining in the setting sun.
Well do you ever get the feeling
That the story's too damn real
And in the present tense.
Or that everbody's on the stage
And it seems like you're the only
Person sitting in the audience

Skating away, skating away, skating away
On the thin ice of the new day

Skating away, skating away, skating away

You'll hear me calling in your sweet dream
Can't hear your daddy's warning cry
You're going back to be all the things you want to be
While in sweet dreams you softly sigh

You hear my voice is calling
To be mine again
Live the rest of your life in a day

Get out and get what you can
While your mummy's at home a-sleeping
No time to understand
'Cause they lost what they thought they were keeping

No one can see us in your sweet dream
Don't hear you leave to start the car
All wrapped up tightly in the coat you borrowed from me,
Your place of resting is not far

You hear my voice is calling
To be mine again
Live the rest of your life in a day

Get out and get what you can
While your mummy's at home a-sleeping
No time to understand
'Cause they lost what they thought they were keeping

Get out and get what you can
While your mummy's at home a-sleeping
No time to understand
'Cause they lost what they thought they were keeping

See black, see yellow with little notebooks drawn
See grey stripes bowling down the street
Silver streaks and T-shirts so precisely torn
Strange foreign chaps in white bed-sheets ---
Uniforms

See golden halo'd men of high renown
prance to the politicians' beat
Well tailored in unswerving elegance
with shoes by Gucci on their feet ---
Uniforms

How do you know who the hell you are?
Wake up each day under a different star
Dressed to the nines, meet yourself going home
like a clone, smartly dressed in your pressed uniform

White battle dress on green pitch, proud eleven
Beneath the swelling box so neat
the teeming millions of the future fly ---
the spinning cricket ball to cheat
They're all uniform

When I was a young man (as all good tales begin)
I was taught to hold out my hand
And for my pay I worked an honest day
And took what pittance I could win
Now I'm a working john and I'm a working joe
And I'm doing what I know
For God and the economy
Big brother watches over me
And the state protects and feeds me
And my conscience never leaves me
And I'm loyal to the unions
Who protect me at all levels

And as I grew, the winds of fortune blew
And the bank smiled down upon me
And mortgaged to the hilt I threw
The breeze of caution behind me
Now I'm a working john and I'm a working joe


And I'm good at what I know
And God and the economy
Have blessed me with equality
Now I'm equal to the best of you
And better than the rest of you
Who would criticise my success
In times of national unrest

Now I own my horseless carriage
In it's central-heated garage
And I commute eighty miles a day ---
Up at seven to make it pay
I direct ten limited companies
With seeming consummate expertise
Two ulcers and a heart disease
A trembling feeling in both knees ---
I'm a working john and I'm a working joe

Hope everybody's ringing on their own bell this fine morning
Hope everyone's connected to that long distance phone
Old man he's a mountain
Old man he's an island
Old man he's a-waking says
"I'm going to call, call all my children home"

Hope everybody's dancing to their own drum this fine morning
The beat of distant Africa or a Polish factory town
Old man he's calling for his supper
Calling for his whisky
Calling for his sons and daughters, yeah
Calling, calling all his children round

Sharp ears are tuned in to the drones and chanters warming
Mist blowing round some headland, somewhere in your memory
Everyone is from somewhere
Even if you've never been there
So take a minute to remember the part of you
That might be the old man calling me

How many wars you fighting out there this winter's morning?
Maybe there's always time for another christmas song
Old man is asleep now
Got appointments to keep now
Dreaming of his sons and daughters, and proving
Proving that the blood is strong

Hope everybody's ringing on their own bell this fine morning
Hope everyone's connected to that long distance phone
Old man he's a mountain
Old man he's an island
Old man he's a-waking says
"I'm going to call, call all my children home"

Hope everybody's dancing to their own drum this fine morning
The beat of distant Africa or a Polish factory town
Old man he's calling for his supper
Calling for his whisky
Calling for his sons and daughters, yeah
Calling, calling all his children round

Sharp ears are tuned in to the drones and chanters warming
Mist blowing round some headland, somewhere in your memory
Everyone is from somewhere
Even if you've never been there
So take a minute to remember the part of you
That might be the old man calling me

How many wars you fighting out there this winter's morning?
Maybe there's always time for another christmas song
Old man is asleep now
Got appointments to keep now
Dreaming of his sons and daughters, and proving
Proving that the blood is strong

Got a birthday card at Christmas... it made me think of Jesus Christ.
It said, "I love you" in small letters. I simply had to read it twice.
Wood smoke curled from blackened chimneys. The smell of frost was in the air.
Pole star hovered in the blackness. I looked again... it wasn't there.

People have showered me with presents. While their minds were fixed on other things.
Sleigh bells, bearded red suit uncles. Pointy trees and angel wings.
I am the shadow in your Christmas. I am the corner of your smile.
Perfunctory in celebration. You offer content but no style.

That little baby Jesus... he got a birthday card or three.
Gold trinkets and cheap frankincense. Some penny baubles for his tree.
Have some time off for good behaviour. Forty days, give or take a few.
Hey there, sweet baby Jesus... Let's share a birthday card with you.

I flew in on the evening plane.
Is it such a good idea that I am here again?
And I could cut my cold breath with a knife.
And taste the winter of another life.

A yellow cab from JFK, the long way round.
I didn't mind... gave me thinking time before I ran aground
on rocky memories and choking tears.
I believe it only rained round here in thirty years.

Now, it's the first snow on Brooklyn and my cold feet are drumming.
You don't see me in the shadows from your cozy window frame.
And last night, who was in your parlour wrapping presents in the late hour
to place upon your pillow as the morning came?

Thin wind stings my face... pull collar up.
I could murder coffee in a grande cup.
No welcome deli; there's no Starbucks here.
A dime for a quick phone call could cost me dear.

And the first snow on Brooklyn paints a Christmas card upon the pavement.
The cab leaves a disappearing trace and then it's gone.
And the snow covers my footprints, deep regrets and heavy heartbeats.
When you wake you'll never see the spot that I was standing on.

Some things are best forgotten... some are better half-remembered.
I just thought that I might be there on your, on your Christmas night.
And the first snow on Brooklyn makes a lonely road to travel -
cold crunch steps that echo as the blizzard bites.

Through long December nights we talk in words of rain or snow
While you, through chattering teeth, reply and curse us as you go.
Why not spare a thought this day for those who have no flame
To warm their bones at Christmas time?
Say Jack Frost and the Hooded Crow.

Now as the last broad oak leaf falls, we beg: consider this ---
there's some who have no coin to save for turkey, wine or gifts.
No children's laughter round the fire, no family left to know.

So lend a warm and a helping hand ---
Say Jack Frost and the Hooded Crow.

As holly pricks and ivy clings,
Your fate is none too clear.
The Lord may find you wanting, let your good fortune disappear.
All homely comforts blown away and all that's left to show
Is to share your joy at Christmas time
With Jack Frost and the Hooded Crow.

Have you seen Jack-In-The-Green?
With his long tail hanging down.
He quietly sits under every tree ---
in the folds of his velvet gown.
He drinks from the empty acorn cup
the dew that dawn sweetly bestows.
And taps his cane upon the ground ---
signals the snowdrops it's time to grow.

It's no fun being Jack-In-The-Green ---
no place to dance, no time for song.
He wears the colours of the summer soldier ---
carries the green flag all the winter long.

Jack, do you never sleep ---
does the green still run deep in your heart?
Or will these changing times,
motorways, powerlines,
keep us apart?
Well, I don't think so ---
I saw some grass growing through the pavements today.

The rowan, the oak and the holly tree
are the charges left for you to groom.
Each blade of grass whispers Jack-In-The-Green.
Oh Jack, please help me through my winter's night.
And we are the berries on the holly tree.
Oh, the mistlethrush is coming.
Jack, put out the light.

Sister Bridget by the stair: a glass of wine and she's almost there.
Cousin Jimmy at the door: another beer and he's on the floor.
Friends and neighbours come around,
Waste no time we're heaven-bound.
But not before we raise a glass to good camaraderie.

Stinky Joe from down the street fell right over his own three feet.
He's doubled up in the outside loo, to taste again the devil's brew.
Friends and neighbours come around,
Waste no time we're heaven-bound.
But not before we raise a glass to good camaraderie.

So make yourselves jolly under mistletoe, holly and ivy.
Get to it ? and be in good cheer.
And when it's all over: pigs gone to clover ?
Will the last man at the party wish me a happy New Year.

The house is jumping, suppers up. Curried goat in a paper cup.
Forks of plastic, knives of tin: who cares what state the goat is in.
Someone with the gift of song
Has brought his pal to sing along.
Now they're turning up old Frank Sinatra on the stereo.

So make yourselves jolly under mistletoe, holly and ivy.
Get to it ? and be in good cheer.
And when it's all over: pigs gone to clover ?
Will the last man at the party wish me a happy New Year.

Sister Bridget by the stair: a glass of wine and she's almost there.
Cousin Jimmy at the door: another beer and he's on the floor.
Friends and neighbours come around,
Waste no time we're heaven-bound.
But not before we raise a glass to good camaraderie.

So make yourselves jolly under mistletoe, holly and ivy.
Get to it ? and be in good cheer.
And when it's all over: pigs gone to clover ?
Will the last man at the party wish me a happy New Year.
(x2)

The bomb's in the china. The fat's in the fire.
There's no turkey left on the table.
The commuter's return on the six o'clock flyer
brings no bale of hay for the stable.
Well, the light, it is failing along the green belt
as we follow the hard road signs.
Semi-detached in our suburban-ness ---
we're living in these hard times.

Well the fly's in the milk and the cat's in the stew.
Another bun in the oven --- oh, what to do?
We'll laugh and we'll sing and try to bring
a pound from your pocket.
Good day to you.
Oh, these hard times.

The politicians sat on the wall
and traded with the union game.
Someone slapped a writ on our deficit ---
not a penny left to our name.
Oh, the times are hard and the credits lean,
and they toss and they turn in sleep.
And the line they take is the line they make ---
but it's not the line they keep.

The cow jumped over yesterday's moon
and the lock ran away with the key.
You know what you like, and you like what you know
but there is no jam for tea.
Well the light it is failing along the green belt
as we follow the hard road signs.
Semi-detached in our suburban-ness ---
we're living in these hard times.

Good morning Weathercock,
How'd you fare last night?
Did the cold wind bite you,
Did you face up to the fright
When the leaves spin from October
And whip around your tail?
Did you shake from the blast,
And did you shiver through the gale?

Give us direction, the best of goodwill,
Put us in touch with fair winds.
Sing to us softly, hum evening's song,
Tell us what the blacksmith has done for you.

Do you simply reflect changes
In the patterns of the sky,
Or is it true to say the weather heeds
The twinkle in your eye?
Do you fight the rush of winter,
And hold snowflakes at bay?
Do you lift the dawn sun from the fields
And help him on his way?

Good morning Weathercock, make this day bright.
Put us in touch with your fair winds.
Sing to us softly, hum evening's song.
Point the way to better days we can share with you.

Good morning Weathercock,
How'd you fare last night?
Did the cold wind bite you,
Did you face up to the fright
When the leaves spin from October
And whip around your tail?
Did you shake from the blast,
And did you shiver through the gale?

Give us direction, the best of goodwill,
Put us in touch with fair winds.
Sing to us softly, hum evening's song,
Tell us what the blacksmith has done for you.

Do you simply reflect changes
In the patterns of the sky,
Or is it true to say the weather heeds
The twinkle in your eye?
Do you fight the rush of winter,
And hold snowflakes at bay?
Do you lift the dawn sun from the fields
And help him on his way?

Good morning Weathercock, make this day bright.
Put us in touch with your fair winds.
Sing to us softly, hum evening's song.
Point the way to better days we can share with you.

I count the hours: you count the days.
Together, we count the minutes in this Passion Play.
Walk dusty miles. And I ride that train
on a first class ticket, just to be with you again.

Picking up tired feet. Back from a far horizon.
Cleaned up and brushed down. Dressed to look the part.
Fresh from God's garden, I bring a gift of roses:
To stand in sweet spring water and press them to your heart.

Like the Kipling cat, I walk alone -
Never inviting trouble, never casting the stone.
But this badge of honour is of tarnished tin.
Light your guiding beacon to bring this fisher in.

Stormy-eyed on the edge of dawn:
Nose pressed against the triple glaze.
Floor to ceiling, wall to wall,
Silent traffic streams both ways.
Along the fussy freeway drivers
Dream of sunday barbecues.
Of a sudden, seems I can barely
Face my self: no face to lose.
Call the bosses. call supervisors.
Won't be in today to work for you.

E-mail that girl who's working nights.
She can dress down for this wind and rain.
Leave her new korean compact:
Let some cabbie take the strain.
Take a shower. take big espresso.
Take to the hills, and take a view.
Little black dress stretching over
Hard crystal peaks: soft valleys too.

Call the bosses. call for nurses.
Unfit today to work for you.

No wet excuses. absent without leave.
I'll be her dayshift driver: exotic engineer.

Stormy-eyed on the edge of night:
(december, eastern time: late afternoon.)
Atlantic city tight behind.
Trump casina calls pontoon.
Gristle-burger, frazzled fries
End this romantic interlude.
Tomorrow morning's sweet awakening
Could hardly prove to be as rude.
Make the journey. make amends.
Work some hasty overtime in lieu.

No wet excuses. absent without leave.
I'll be her dayshift driver: exotic engineer.

She's catching the wind: the gentlest of breezes.
It's a sensitive passage she's sailing -
Through stormy straits, navigates my unfathomable failings.

She rises before me, reading me clearly.
Empty nest left pressed in the pillow.
She can shift, she can sway
and bend like a willow.

I'm swept in the riptide, caught in a fish trap.
Gift-wrapped in my soft self centre.
Summer sun leaves me as one who can only taste winter.
She's a good, a good God-send: she can bend like a willow.

With a fully armed angel to cover me quickly.
I'm cool under enemy fire.
If I fall, she can crawl right under the wire.

When I'm caustic and cold, she might dare to be bold -
ease me round to her warm way of thinking:
fill me up from the cup of love that she's drinking.
And I find, given time. I can bend like a willow.
She bends like a willow.

Hand in the snake pit - black mamba chase.
Head through the lion's cage - head on a plate.
Two feet on the hot coals - last dance at the ball.
Blindfold on the tightrope - whenever you call.
Be my slippery slider, Black Mamba crawl over me.

Dark thoughts of the sleepless - hung out to dry.
Slip through the bedclothes - unblinking eye.
Long tongue flickering - fixed stare grip.
Sweet venomous potion, held to my lip.
Be my slippery slider, Black Mamba crawl over me.

A tropical whisper. A sibilant kiss.
Soft strike teasing. Dangerous bliss.

It's a wide world out there
So much wider than imagined
I can't quite put my finger on the pulse
Of your heart softly beating
Just beneath the raw silk sheen
That reflects the tints of autumn from the hills.

So punch my name.
And in case you wonder -
I'll be yours - yours, dot com.

Executive accommodation
Bland but nonetheless appealing
Waiters discretely at your beck and call
Place the tall sun-down potion
Lightly by your velvet elbow
While you compose a message on the wall.

So punch my name.
And in case you wonder -
I'll be yours - yours, dot com.

With your handmade leather valise
Packed and ready, ready waiting
Showered and dressed down lightly for the heat
Gice a clue; leave a kind word
Hint as to a destination
A domain where our cyber-souls might meet.

So punch my name.
And in case you wonder -
I'll be yours - yours, dot com.

Placing people in their dreamscape
with fantasies of foreign fields
Lofty spires all well appointed
In off-season special deals.

To far Alaska: down to Rio in the Carnival
Norwegian fjords in the ever-light of Solstice call

A part of me might travel with you
in a freebie bucket seat for one
Business First - at last, forever
Hopeless thoughts of flying fun

Now get me out of here I cry in air rage psycho-doom
I'm only dream-arranging from the safety of my room

Pick a place or stick a pin in
any corner of the sphere
Post me cards and tell me nicely
Say you wish that I was here

To far Alaska: down to Rio in the Carnival
Norwegian fjords in the ever-light of Solstice call

Hot mango flush.
Ladies with ice cream hair -
Gyroscopic pink neon beams -
Everybody's happy about something.
The crowd moves like a flock of startlings: they
switch direction as one.
Jive on the jukebox - Jack and Joker
split the night air with whoop and holler.
Faint aroma - wood smoke, old fish,
diesel harbour, roadside mongrel,
painted man with buttons barely
holding, bursting belly bulging.
Doe-eyed ragamuffin mumbling -
Scolded for some vague infraction.
Stole a penny candy-coloured
sweetheart kiss down at the market.
Down at the market all the world
seems to simmer:
Hot mango flush.

Hey little buddies:
soft and silky night walkers.
Dangerous species -
Tiptoe menace long grass stalkers
on my bed:
no butter melting in your jaws.
Bonding monster -
Lethal weapon wearing claws.

Let's go out to hunt by numbers.

Tabby, spotted, black as coal -
Serval, Margy, Caracal.
Moggie in the moonlight listens:
whiskered sensory miracle.
Felis, befriend us -
Egyptian Mau - Freya's familiar.
Long in the future -
Cloned disciples, the castle guard.

Now, let's go out and hunt by numbers.

Hot Mango Flush

Kilometers from nowhere on a scented avenue -
Lined with poppy girls.
I didn't stop, stop to say hello.
Curious vendors - waving bric-a-brac -
Looked me over -
Thought it best, best that I should go.

Don't wake me: I'm falling.
Slow spiral into morning.
Who's out there? Can't hear you.
Ears covered - early warning.
Alarm bells ringing.
Time to make my peace with the dreary day.

I waited atbles - I was tipped in roubles.
Wine to water
Was the best that I could do.
Wild office parties split the silence.
Loaves and fishes at an empty table laid for two.

Down the spiral, spinning madly.
Gathering momentum
On a disneyesque adventure ride.
I fly in colours from richer palettes.
Famous artists running scared as worlds collide.

Rusted and ropy.
Dog-eared old copy.
Vintage and classic,
or just plain Jurassic:
all words to describe me.

Relaxed in the knowledge
that happily present
are all things to sustain me,
nurture and claim me:
roll back the mileage.

You have settled beside me.
To the far and the wide of me.
A matter of choosing,
of finding and losing
on the rough ride with me.

Take whisky with water,
kick stones down the gutter.
Think back to long days with
stale breath recycled in my face.
Rattling through airways -
plastic on cold trays.
Watching through windows,
deep landscapes below
await another time and space.

There must come some time
to walk through the night line.
Hands tight: heads high.
These are the dog-ear years.
Don't turn back. Don't linger.
For God's sake keep moving.
Primitive shadows sidle beside.

Wet wind on the sidewalk: I'm staring at the rain.
Walking up the street, yeah, and walking down again.
And my feet are tired and my brain is numb.
See that broken neon sign saying, hey, in you come.

Got the scent of stale beer hanging, hanging round my head.
Old dog in the corner sleeping like he could be dead.
A book of matches and a full ashtray.
Cigarette left smoking its life away.
Another Harry's bar -- or that's the tale they tell.
But Harry's long gone now, and the customers as well.
Me and the dog and the ghost of Harry will make this world turn right.
It'll all turn right.

God's tears on the sidewalk: it's the mother of all rain.
But in the thick blue haze of Harry's, you will feel no pain.
And you will feel no soft hand slipping on your knee.
You don't have to pay for memories, they will all come free.
Another Harry's bar -- or that's the tale they tell.
But Harry's long gone now, and the customers as well.
Me and the dog and the ghost of Harry will make this world turn right.
It'll all turn right.

Now when Harry was a young man, Harry was so debonair.
He walked a bouncy step in his shiny shoes.
And when Harry was a young man, well, Harry could walk on air.
He mixed a mean cocktail and he talked you through the late news.
You want to hear some great news?
Harry's still here.

Wet wind on the sidewalk: I'm still staring at the rain.
Walking up the street, and I'm walking down again.
And my feet are tired and my brain is numb.
See that broken neon sign saying, hey, in you come.

Another Harry's bar -- or that's the tale they tell.
But Harry's long gone now, and the customers as well.
Me and the dog and the ghost of Harry will make this world turn right.
It'll all turn right.

Another Harry's bar.
And another Harry's bar.
And another, and another Harry's bar.

Small child messing down, messing down.
in the streets of Bombay.
Cities like this have no shame, no shame;
indeed, why should they?
Out in the middle distance, several tragedies are playing.
I'm beside myself.

Big sister, can you hear him, can you hear him?
I'm beside myself.
Big sister, can you see him cry, see him cry?
I'm beside myself.
I saw you taking money in the shadows --
in the shadows by the station there.

I'll wish you up a silver train
to carry you to school, bring you home again.
Strip off that work paint and put a cleaner face on.
I'm beside myself.

Hollow faced mother with her babe in arms,
babe in arms-looks through me.
Behind forgotten charms,
forgotten charms to soothe me.
Between the guilt and charity --
I feel the wimp inside of me.

I'm beside myself.
Out in the middle distance, still more tragedies are playing.
I'm beside myself.

I'm so proud of you --
Swimming up from the deep blue.
Which one of me do you run to?
I'm beside myself.

Small child messing down, messing down.
in the streets of Bombay.
Cities like this have no shame, have no shame;
indeed, why should they?
Out in the middle distance, several tragedies are playing.
I'm beside myself.

Desert candle in a tented space
throwing softer shadows on a covered face.
Sister, silent to the likes of me --
Pay my respects to her propriety.

Is this some crazy woman here,
dancing behind her thin black veil?
Am I misreading those mysterious eyes?
Duet impossible to harmonize.

I'm not inviting any stiff reaction.
I'm not one for naming holy names.
And I won't peek behind those dangerous veils.
Though you might hate me just the same.

Name of the Father ringing in her head --
Thinking over what the prophet said.
Words and tradition bind her in their spell.
Don't drink the water from this holy well.

I'm not inviting any fierce reaction
and I'm not one for naming holy names.
I won't peek behind those dangerous veils.
Though you might hate me just the same.

Desert candle in a tented space
Softer shadows on a covered face.
Sister, silent to the likes of me --
I tip my hat to her propriety.

I'm not inviting any fierce reaction
and I'm not one for naming holy names.
I won't peek behind those dangerous veils.
Though you might hate me just the same.

Glued to the kerbstone, staring.
Frozen at the stop-sign too.
See that crazy suicide mongrel.
He's going to try to cross that avenue.
Old dog of experience,
ripping through the black and yellow cabs,
dodging rickshaws and the bicycle boys.
He's got his mind on someone else's dinner --
Over the road, round the corner, out of the noise.

Lives down in some cool, cool basement --
Sharing with a family of bouncy, ratty little guys
Works to a discipline of ritual undertakings --
Sleep, eat, and gentle exercise
Old dog of experience,
ripping through the black and yellow cabs,
dodging rickshaws and the bicycle boys.
He's got his mind on someone else's dinner --
Over the road, round the corner, out of the noise.

Some towns I know, he could end up in a restaurant --
wrong side of a table for two.
It's enough to send him running, running for cover.
Back into traffic, what's a poor dog to do?
Old mutt of experience,
ripping through the black and yellow cabs,
dodging rickshaws and the bicycle boys.
He's got his mind on someone else's dinner --
Over the road, round the corner, out of the noise.

Rare and precious chain
Do I have to tell you, tell you once again?
Under red lights, on soft nights, it all comes back to you.
Rare and precious chain
Binds me to your soul round gently pulsing veins.
Shackled tight, feel love's bite coming back to you.

No gold of fools.
No hostage taking.
No engagement rules.
To leave you forsaken.

Tiny beads of sweat
thin diamond glistening, glistening around your neck,
forgotten rooms, dark catacombs
they all come back to you.

No crock of glittering prizes.
No sharply worded telegram.
No excuses for the word-weary.
No excuses for who I am.

It's a rare and precious chain.
Around your neck I place it, place it once again.
Drawn finger tight, feel love's bite coming back to you.
Under red lights, on soft nights, it all comes back to you.
Rare and precious chain.

Words get written. Words get twisted.
Old meanings move in the drift of time.
Lift the flickering torches. See gentle shadows change
the features of the faces cut in unmoving stone.
Bad mouth on a prayer day, hope no one's listening.
Roots down in the wet clay, branches glistening.

True disciples carrying that message
to colour just a little with their personal touch.
Home-spun fancy weavers and naked half-believers --
Crusades and creeds descend like fiery flakes of snow.
Bad mouth on a prayer day, hope no one's listening.
Roots down in the wet clay, branches glistening.
Roots to branches
Roots to branches
Roots to branches

In wet and windy priest-holes. Grand in vast cathedrals.
High on lofty minarets or in the temples of doom.
I hope the old man's got his face on.
He'd better be some quick change artist.
Suffer little children to make their minds up soon.
Bad mouth on a prayer day, hope no one's listening.
Roots down in the wet clay, branches glistening.
Roots to branches
Roots to branches
Roots to branches

Roots to branches
Roots to branches
Roots to branches

Brings jasmine tea on a painted tray
and bends to kiss my frown away.
But I'm still still stuck in the August rain;
stuck out in the cloudburst once again.

The cover's on, the coast is clear.
We're all battened down, only us here.
But I'm still still stuck in the August rain;
stuck out in the cloudburst once again.
She walks between the lines
and she can read my signs.

Stuck out in the August rain:
Out in the cloudburst once again.

Single-minded in my gloom.
I appear to revel in this darkened room.
But I'm still still stuck in the August rain;
stuck out in the cloudburst once again.
She walks between the lines
and she can read my signs.

Stuck out in the August rain:
Out in the cloudburst once again.

She peeled from a stretch black snake
which slipped up to the hotel door.
Darting looks from piercing eyes --
The stir of memory and then no more.
Well, you know how I have to believe --
She can almost remember my name.

It's been a long time coming, babe --
Long time loose amongst foreign hills --
Shaking my faith in this free will.

Years ago in a coastal town,
mosquitoes buzzed in her hair.
Schooldress torn and bare feet brown --
Then the rains came and she wasn't there.
You're closing your doors on me
when you had almost remembered my name.

It's been a long time coming, babe --
Long time loose amongst foreign hills --
Shaking my faith in this free will.

Sharp points in an ink black sky --
Faint words collide, then are lost.
I'll follow you beneath this dome --
Win you back at any cost.
I know we were children then,
but you can almost remember my name.

It's been a long time coming, babe --
Long time loose amongst foreign hills --
Well, let's be children still --
Don't shake my faith in this free will.

Don't shake my faith in this free will.

Wake hard in the morning.
See the young girl milking.
Stream rushing by on a bed of stone.
Old goats and sandstone cracking --
All containing --
Squeezing that river like it squeeze your bones.
In the long red, red valley people live here too long.
In the long red, red valley they only sing the valley song.

Some bad people living further down the valley,
Not easy for us to do good trade.
We got snowmelt, snowmelt sweet water.
They got that valley road that they made.
In the long red, red valley people dying here too long.
In the long red, red valley they only sing the valley song.

Holding hands on the hillside.
Showing love to your brother --
your sister and your mother --
but we hate those people down the valley.

Has anybody seen Moses?
Get him off that mountain.
Bring back the tablets of stone.
It's a wise, wise prophet who keeps his own council.
Yeah, leave the other man's wife alone.
In the long red, red valley people live here too long.
In the long red, red valley they only sing the valley song.

Wake hard in the morning.
See the young girl milking.
Stream rushing by on a bed of stone.
Old goats and sandstone cracking --
All containing --
Squeezing that river like it squeeze your bones.
In the long red, red valley people living here too long.
In the long red, red valley they only live the valley song.
In the long red, red valley people dying here too long.
In the long red, red valley they only know the valley song.

A walk on the quiet side, late in the day --
Don't mean to get in anybody's way.
The Gods seem willing: sun's in the sky.
Old crows cawing as the straight crows fly.
There was a time when love was the law.
There was a time for the tooth and the claw.
Last rites given, no holds barred.
Heaven Express on my credit card.

Now let me draw the jungle line --
I won't cross yours if you don't cross mine.
Won't make trouble, I don't need no fuss.
But I'm wounded, old and I'm treacherous.

Allow me to draw the jungle line --
you cross it once, you cross some friends of mine.
They won't make trouble, they don't need no fuss
but they're wounded, old and they're treacherous.

In the crisp of evening, on sacred ground --
Ghosts of fathers pushing moonbeams round.
Big cats prowling inside your head --
They left for China; better left for dead.

Let me draw the jungle line --
I won't cross yours if you don't cross mine.
Won't make trouble, I don't need no fuss.
But I'm wounded, old and I'm treacherous.

A walk on the quiet side, late in the day --
Don't mean to get in anybody's way.
The Gods seem willing: sun's in the sky.
Old crows cawing as the straight crows fly.
There was a time when love was the law.
There was a time for the tooth and the claw.
Last rites given, no holds barred.
Heaven Express on my credit card.

living mountains going to shake that town --
big mother calling you from underground.
She don't want trouble, she don't need no fuss.
But she's wounded, old and treacherous.

I've been treated for mild depression
and I've been treated for growing pains.
I've been treated for hallucinations;
now I can see it all coming again.
Well, you can wind me up. Yeah, you can slow me down.
You can dig a little, and you can mess me around.
But there's one thing I should tell you, to which
you must agree:
There's no use you playing doctor to my disease.
Said it's no use you playing doctor to my disease.

I got no cure for this condition
that you've been causing me tonight.
Well, you put my heart in overdrive:
hand me the bullet I must bite.
You can stir me up and you can cut me down.
You can probe a little, push that knife around.
But there's one thing I should tell you, to which
you must agree:
It's no use you playing doctor to my disease.

Do you have to break my engine
so you can fix it up again?
Tuned to crazy imperfection
just to score me out of ten.
Well, you can wind me up. Yeah, you can slow me down.
You can dig a little. Yeah, you can mess me around.
But there's one thing I should tell you, to which
you must agree:
That it's no use you playing doctor to my disease.

In the dark of the city backwoods, something stirs then slips away.
Law and order in darkest Knightsbridge. Crime and punishment at play.
Hey, Mr. Policeman won't you come on over. Hook me up to the power lines
of your love.
Jump start, or tow me away.

And through the bruised machinery, the smoking haze of industry.
Another day with ball and chain. I do my time, then home again.
Hey, Mrs. Maggie won't you come on over. Hook me up to the power lines
of your love.
Jump start, or tow me away.

Well, should I blame the officers? Or maybe, I should blame the priest?
Or should I blame the poor foot soldier
who's left to make the most from least?
Hey, Jack Ripper won't you come on over. Hook me up to the power lines
of your love.
Jump start, or tow me away.

You can blame the newsman talking at you on the satellite T.V.
And if you're fighting for your shipyards, you might as well just blame the sea.
Hey, Mr. Weatherman come on over. Hook me up to the power lines
of your love.
Jump start, or tow me away.

Well, I don't care to eat out in smart restaurants.
I'd rather do a Vindaloo: take away is what I want.
I was down at the old Bengal, having telephoned a treat
when I saw her framed in the kitchen door.
She looked good enough to eat.
(And I mean eat.)
She was a tall thin girl.
She looked like a tall thin girl.
She said, Whose is this carry-out?
My face turned chilli red.
Well, I don't know about carrying out,
but you can carry me off to bed.
(And I mean bed.)
She was a tall thin girl.
She moved like a tall thin girl.
Maybe I can fetch for it,
and maybe I can stretch for it.

I may not be a fat man and I'm not exactly small
but when it all comes down, couldn't stand my ground.
This girl was tall.
(And I mean tall.)

Big boy Doane, he's a drummer. Don't play no tambourine
but he's Madras hot on the bongo trot,
if you know just what I mean.
Stands six foot three in his underwear;
going to get him down here and see
if this good lady's got a little sister 'bout the same size as me.
She was a tall thin girl.
She looked like a tall thin girl.
Well, can I fetch for it?
Well, maybe I can stretch for it?
Well, am I up for it? Or do I have to go down for it?

I could he sitting on the left of you.
You'd be looking straight ahead.
If I was adrift right across from you,
You still would cut me dead.
I've had better deep discussions
With this plate of soft-shelled crab.

I'd put some spice in your rice.
You'd give me blues in the stew.
I'd give you catfish jumping.
You'd give me all this work to do.
Who's got the cheque on this hot dinner?
Who's got the tabs on the crab?



Another night in the wilderness:
Should have been a night on the town.
Lesson in learning how to hold a conversation down.
I'm in splendid isolation, feel that heavy silence fall.
Got all this cut out for me to do.
Another night in the wilderness of you.

Here I am drinking you with my eyes.
You're looking at the gravy on my bib.
I go weak-kneed at the suggestion of you.
What's wrong with the cut of my jib?
Is there a lobster in the offing, or just a fifty dollar cheque?