36 GREATEST HITS
Aqualung
Sitting on a park bench
eyeing little girls with bad intent.
Snot running down his nose
greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes.
Drying in the cold sun
Watching as the frilly panties run.
Feeling like a dead duck
spitting out pieces of his broken luck.Sun streaking cold
an old man wandering lonely.
Taking time
the only way he knows.
Leg hurting bad,
as he bends to pick a dog-end
he goes down to the bog
and warms his feet.Feeling alone
the army's up the rode
salvation à la mode and
a cup of tea.
Aqualung my friend
don't start away uneasy
you poor old sod, you see, it's only me.
Do you still remember
December's foggy freeze
when the ice that
clings on to your beard is
screaming agony.
And you snatch your rattling last breaths
with deep-sea-diver sounds,
and the flowers bloom like
madness in the spring.
Cross-Eyed Mary
Who would be a poor man, a beggarman, a thief
if he had a rich man in his hand.
And who would steal the candy
from a laughing baby's mouth
if he could take it from the money man.
Cross-eyed Mary goes jumping in again.
She signs no contract
but she always plays the game.
Dines in Hampstead village
on expense accounted gruel,
and the jack-knife barber drops her off at school.Laughing in the playground - gets no kicks from little boys:
would rather make it with a letching grey.
Or maybe her attention is drawn by Aqualung,
who watches through the railings as they play.
Cross-eyed Mary finds it hard to get along.
She's a poor man's rich girl
and she'll do it for a song.
She's a rich man stealer
but her favour's good and strong:
She's the Robin Hood of Highgate
helps the poor man get along.
Hymn 43
Oh father high in heaven - smile down upon your son
whose busy with his money games - his women and his gun.
Oh Jesus save me!
And the unsung Western hero killed an Indian or three
and made his name in Hollywood
to set the white man free.
Oh Jesus save me!
If Jesus saves - well, He'd better save Himself
from the gory glory seekers who use His name in death.
Oh Jesus save me!
I saw him in the city and on the mountains of the moon
His cross was rather bloody
He could hardly roll His stone.
Oh Jesus save me!
Locomotive Breath
In the shuffling madess
of the locomotive breath,
runs the all-time loser,
headlong to his death.
He feels the piston scraping
steam breaking on his brow
old Charlie stole the handle and
the train won't stop going
no way to slow down.He sees his children jumping off
at the stations - one by one.
His woman and his best friend
in bed and having fun.
He's crawling down the corridor
on his hands and knees
old Charlie stole the handle and
the train 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.
He picks up Gideons Bible
open at page one
old Charlie stole the handle and
the train won't stop going
no way to slow down.
A New Day Yesterday
My first and last time with you
and we had some fun.
wenT walking through the trees, yeah!
And then I kissed you once.
Oh I want to see you soon
but I wonder how.
It was a new day yesterday
but it's an old day now.Spent a long time looking
for a game to play.
My luck should be so bad now
to turn out this way.
Oh I had to leave today
just when I thought I'd found you.
It was a new day yesterday
But it's an old day now.
Glory Row
Rise up all you fine young ladies and take arms for the show.
Oh, we'll put your name up in lights,
put you down on Glory Row.
Would you be the star of ages
to light your own way at night?
Might be a former beauty queen with your high smile stuck on so tightly.
They come and they go down on Glory Row.
It's the same old story --- yes, it the same old show.Well, hello all you gentlemen, I fear I'm a lot like you.
We're wearing the same school tie but a different pair of shoes.
How did you get to be who you are?
Will your children share the blame?
Is it really worth the time it takes
to carve your name on Glory Row?Down on Glory Row.
It's the same old story
yes, it the same old show.
To Cry You A Song
Flying so high, trying to remember
how many cigarettes did I bring along?
When I get down I'll jump in a taxi cab
driving through London town
to cry you a song.It's been a long time
still shaking my wings.
Well, I'm a glad bird
I got changes to ring.Closing my dream inside its paper-bag.
Thought I saw angels
but I could have been wrong.
Search in my case,
can't find what they're looking for.
Waving me through
to cry you a song.It's been a long time
still shaking my wings.
Well I'm a glad bird
I got changes to ring.Lights in the street,
peeping through curtains drawn.
Rattling of safety chain taking too long.
The smile in your eyes was never so sweet before
Came down from the skies
to cry you a song.
Teacher
Well the dawn was coming,
heard him ringing on my bell.
He said, ``My name's the teacher,
that is what I call myself.
And I have a lesson
that I must impart to you.
It's an old expression
but I must insist it's true.Jump up, look around,
find yourself some fun,
no sense in sitting there hating everyone.
No man's an island and his castle isn't home,
the nest is for nothing when the bird has flown.''So I took a journey,
threw my world into the sea.
With me went the teacher
who found fun instead of me.Hey man, what's the plan, what was that you said?
Sun-tanned, drink in hand, lying there in bed.
I try to socialize but I can't seem to find
what I was looking for, got something on my mind.Then the teacher told me
it had been a lot of fun.
Thanked me for his ticket
and all that I had done.Hey man, what's the plan, what was that you said?
Sun-tanned, drink in hand, lying there in bed.
I try to socialize but I can't seem to find
what I was looking for, got something on my mind.
Nothing Is Easy
Nothing is easy.
Though time gets you worrying
my friend, it's o.k.
Just take your life easy
and stop all that hurrying,
be happy my way.When tension starts mounting
and you've lost count
of the pennies you've missed,
just try hard and see why they're not worrying me,
they're last on my list.
Nothing's easy.Nothing is easy, you'll find
that the squeeze won't turn out so bad.
Your fingers may freeze, worse things happen at sea,
there's good times to be had.
So if you're alone and you're down to the bone,
just give us a play.
You'll smile in a while and discover
that I'll get you happy my way
nothing's easy.
Rock Island
Savage night on a misty island. Lights wink out in the canyon walls.
Two old boys in a stolen racer. Black rubber contrails in the unwashed halls.
And all roads out of here, seem to lead right back to the Rock Island.
Rock Island.I've gone back to Paris, London, and even riding on a jumbo to Bombay.
The long haul back holds faint attraction, but the people here know they're o.k.
See the girl following the red balloon: walking all alone on her Rock Island.
Rock Island.Doesn't everyone have their own Rock Island? Their own little patch of sand?
Where the slow waves crawl and your angels fall and you find you can hardly stand.
And just as you're drowning, well, the tide goes down.
And you're back on your Rock Island.
Rock Island.Hey there girlie with the torn dress, shaking: who was it touched you?
Who was it ruined your day?
Whose footprint calling card? And what they want, stepping on your beach anyway?
I'll be your life raft out of here, but you'd only drift right back to your Rock Island.
Rock Island.Hey, boy with the personal stereo: nothing 'tween the ears but that hard rock sound.
Playing to your empty room, empty guitar tune,
No use waiting for that C.B.S. to come around.
'cause all roads out of here, seem to lead right back to your Rock Island.
Rock Island.Doesn't everyone have their own Rock Island? Their own little patch of sand?
Where the slow waves crawl and your angels fall and you find you can hardly stand.
And just as you're drowning, well, the tide goes down.
And you're back on your Rock Island.
Rock Island. Rock Island. Rock Island. Rock Island.
Saboteur
In and out of shady places
walking on cold corners of the maze.Following the trace you leave unwittingly.
I wanna be no Saboteur.
Oh, no, me no Saboteur.Painted ducks across your landscape
happy in your domesticity (it don't come free).
Misfortune, like a Sparrow Hawk, hangs over you.
Wanna be no Saboteur.
No, no, me no Saboteur.Deepest regrets I humbly offer you
as I cut into your life.
With clean precision, all is simplified
pass the hat and pass the knife.By now you must be worried, wondering
who is me and what lies behind my art.
I'm only removing broken sea-shells from the beach
oh, no, me no Saboteur.There's at least one of me inside your ranks
in your factory or school.
I anticipate a cleansing opportunity
to take the horns by the bull.History forever writing
pages to be cut or painted grey,
or celebrated like Jesus in his
temple rage
as he chased the money-men away.I wanna be no Saboteur.
Be no, be no Saboteur.
John Barleycorn
There were three men, came out of the west,
Their fortunes for to try
And these three men made a solemn vow:
John Barleycorn must die!
Well, they've ploughed, they've sown, the've harrowed him in.
Threw clouds upon his head.
Till these three men were satisfied.
John Barleycorn was dead.
They've let him lie for a long long time,
till the rains from heaven did fall.And little sir John sprang up his head
And so amazed them all.
They let him fly till the midsummer's day,
Till he looked both pale and wan, oh,
Then little Sir John has grown a long long beard
And so became a man.They have hired men with the scythes so sharp.
To cut him off at the knee,
They rolled and they tied him around the waist,
serving him most him barbarously.
They hired men with the sharp pitchforks
to prick him to the heart.
And the loader he has served him worse than that,
for he's bound him to the cart.Well, they've wheeled him 'round and 'round the field,
till they came onto a barn.
And there they made their solemn oath,
concerning a Barleycorn.
They hired men with the crab tree sticks
to split him skin from bone, yeah,
but the miller he has served him worst and bad
for he ground him between two stones.Well there's beer all in the barrel
and brandy in the glass,
but little old sir John with his nut-brown bowl
proved the strongest man at last.
John Barleycorn, throw him up, throw him up!Now the huntsman, he can't hunt the fox,
nor loudly blow his horn
And the tinker he can't mend his pots
Without John Barleycorn,
John Barleycorn, John Barleycorn,
Barleycorn, Barleycorn
John Barleycorn, John Barleycorn.
Thick As A Brick (Edit #4)
I've come down from the upper class to mend your rotten ways.
My father was a man-of-power whom everyone obeyed.
So come on all you criminals!
I've got to put you straight just like I did with my old man
twenty years too late.
Your bread and water's going cold.
Your hair is too short and neat.
I'll judge you all and make damn sure that no-one judges me.
Warchild
I'll take you down to that bright city mile
there to powder your sweet face and paint on a smile,
that will show all of the pleasures and none of the pain,
when you join my explosion and play with my games.
WarChild dance the days, and dance the nights away.
WarChild dance the days, and dance the nights away.No unconditional surrender; no armistice day
each night I'll die in my contentment and lie in your grave.
While you bring me water and I give you wine.
Let me dance in your tea-cup and you shall swim in mine.
WarChild dance the days, and dance the nights away.Open your windows and I'll walk through your doors.
Let me live in your country let me sleep by your shores.WarChild dance the days, and dance the nights away.
WarChild dance the days, and dance the nights away.
WarChild dance the days, and dance the nights away.
WarChild dance the days, and dance the nights away.
Skating Away On The Thin Ice Of The New Day
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 have done.
And as you cross the wilderness,
spinning in your emptiness:
you feel you have to pray.
Looking for a sign that the Universal Mind 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,
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 everybody'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
A Passion Play (Edit #8)
Colours I've none dark or light, red, white or blue.
Cold is my touch (freezing).Summoned by name - I am the overseer over you.
Given this command to watch o'er our miserable sphere.
Fallen from grace, called on to bring sun or rain.
Occasional corn from my oversight grew.
Fell with mine angels from a far better place,
offering services for the saving of face.
Now you're here, you may as well admire
all whom living has retired from the benign reconciliation.
Legends were born surrounding mysterious lights
seen in the sky (flashing).
I just lit a fag then took my leave in the blink of an eye.
Passionate play join round the maypole in dance
(primitive rite) (wrongly).
Summoned by name I am the overseer over you.
Fat Man
Don't want to be a fat man,
people would think that I was
just good fun.
Would rather be a thin man,
I am so glad to go on being one.
Too much to carry around with you,
no chance of finding a woman who
will love you in the morning and all the night time too.Don't want to be a fat man,
have not the patience to ignore all that.
Hate to admit to myself half of my problems
came from being fat.
Won't waste my time feeling sorry for him,
I seen the other side to being thin.
Roll us both down a mountain
and I'm sure the fat man would win.
Rainbow Blues
Through northern lights on back streets
I told the coachman, "Just drive me on,
It's the same old destination
but a different world to sing upon."
So he threw back his head and he counted.
I jumped out about five to nine.And I waved at the stage door-keeper
said, "Mister, get me to the stage on time."Oh, but the rain wasn't made of water
and the snow didn't have a place in the sun
so I slipped behind a rainbow
and waited till the show had done.I packed my ammunition.
Inside the crowd was shouting, "Encore",But I had a most funny feeling
it wasn't me they were shouting for.
So when the tall dark lady smiled at me
I said, "Oh, baby let us go for a ride."
And we came upon two drinks or four
and popped them oh so neatly inside.Oh, but the rain wasn't made of water
and the snow didn't have a place in the sun
so we slipped behind a rainbow
and lay there until we had done.Let me pack you deep in my suitcase.
Oh, there's sure to be room for two
or you can drive me to the airplane
but don't let me catch those rainbow blues.
Minstrel In The Gallery
The minstrel in the gallery
looked down upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes observed the spaces
between the old men's cackle.
He brewed a song of love and hatred,
oblique suggestions and he waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters,
static-humming panel-beaters,
freshly day-glow'd factory cheaters
(salaried and collar-scrubbing.)
He titillated men-of-action
belly warming, hands still rubbing
on the parts they never mention.
He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating,
one-line jokers, TV documentary makers
(overfed and undertakers.)
Sunday paper backgammon players
family-scarred and women-haters.
Then he called the band down to the stage
and he looked at all the friends he'd made.The minstrel in the gallery
looked down upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes observed the spaces
in between the old men's cackle.
He brewed a song of love and hatred,
oblique suggestions and he waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters,
static-humming panel-beaters,The minstrel in the gallery
looked down on the rabbit-run.
And threw away his looking-glass -
saw his face in everyone.He titillated men-of-action
belly warming, hands still rubbing
on the parts they never mention.
(salaried and collar-scrubbing.)He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating,
one-line jokers, TV documentary makers
(overfed and undertakers.)
Sunday paper backgammon players
family-scarred and women-haters.
Then he called the band down to the stage
and he looked at all the friends he'd made.The minstrel in the gallery
looked down on the rabbit-run.
And threw away his looking-glass -
and saw his face in everyone.The minstrel in the gallery
looked down upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes...
The minstrel in the gallery
Requiem
Well, I saw a bird today
flying from a bush
and the wind blew it away.
And the black-eyed mother sun
scorched the butterfly at play
velvet veined. I saw it burn.
With a wintry storm-blown sigh,
a silver cloud blew right on by.
And, taking in the morning, I sang
O Requiem.Well, my lady told me, "Stay."
I looked aside and walked away
along the strand.
But I didn't say a word,
as the train time-table blurred
close behind the taxi stand.
Saw her face in the tear-drop black cab window.
Fading into the traffic; watched her go.
And taking in the morning,
heard myself singing
O Requiem.
Here I go again.
It's the same old story.Well, I saw a bird today
I looked aside and walked away
along the strand.
Nursie
Tip-toes in silence `round my bed
and quiets the raindrops overhead.
With her everlasting smile
She still my fever for a while.
Oh, nursie dear,
I'm glad you're here
to brush away my pain.
Broadsword
I see a dark sail on the horizon set under a black
cloud that hides the sun.Bring me my broadsword and clear understanding.
Bring me my cross of gold as a talisman.
Get up to the roundhouse on the cliff-top standing.
Take women and children and bed them down.Bring me my broadsword and clear understanding.
Bring me my cross of gold as a talisman.
Bless with a hard heart those who surround me.
Bless the women and children who firm our hands.
Put our backs to the north wind. Hold fast by the river.
Sweet memories to drive us on for the motherland.
Coronach
Grey the mist cold the dawn;
cruel the sea and stern the shore.
Brave the man who sets his course
for Albion.Sweet the rose sharp the thorn;
meek the soil and proud the corn.
Blessed the lamb that would be born
within this green and pleasant land.Hi-O-Ran-I-Ro
Hi-O-Ran-I-RoBrown furrow shine
beneath the rain washed blue.
Bright crystal streams
from eagle mountains born.
Fortune has smiled on those who wake anew,
within this fortress nature built
to stay the hand of war.With the wind from the east
came the first of those to tread
upon this stone, this throne of kings;
this realm, this new Jerusalem.Hi-O-Ran-I-Ro
Hi-O-Ran-I-Ro
Hi-O-Ran-I-Ro
Hi-O-Ran-I-Ro
Roll Yer Own
Roll yer own. Don't mean you got no money.
Only that you got no opportunity to shake it with that friend of mine.
Roll yer own if you can't buy readymade;
you won't be satisfied when you feel the sudden need
to unwind.
You know what moves you in the wee hours
when there's nothing on the answerphone.
And if you don't get enough of that electric love
don't try to get by ---
roll yer own, roll it when there's no-one listening:
when those re-runs play on the late-night
black and white TV.
Roll yer own, roll it when there's something missing
and those wild cats howl, running in the moonshine.Roll yer own: you got to hit that spot.
Roll yer own when your hands are hot.
Bungle in the Jungle
Walking through forests of palm tree apartments
scoff at the monkeys who live in their dark tents
down by the waterhole
drunk every Friday
eating their nuts
saving their raisins for Sunday.
Lions and tigers who wait in the shadows
they're fast but they're lazy, and sleep in green meadows.Let's bungle in the jungle
well, that's all right by me.
I'm a tiger when I want love,
but I'm a snake if we disagree.Just say a word and the boys will be right there:
with claws at your back to send a chill through the night air.
Is it so frightening to have me at your shoulder?
Thunder and lightning couldn't be bolder.
I'll write on your tombstone, ``I thank you for dinner.''
This game that we animals play is a winner.Let's bungle in the jungle
well, that's all right by me.
I'm a tiger when I want love,
but I'm a snake if we disagree.The rivers are full of crocodile nasties
and He who made kittens put snakes in the grass.
He's a lover of life but a player of pawns
yes, the King on His sunset lies waiting for dawn
to light up His Jungle
as play is resumed.
The monkeys seem willing to strike up the tune.
Living In The Past
Happy and I'm smiling,
walk a mile to drink your water.
You know I'd love to love you,
and above you there's no other.
We'll go walking out
while others shout of war's disaster.
Oh, we won't give in,
let's go living in the past.Once I used to join in
every boy and girl was my friend.
Now there's revolution, but they don't know
what they're fighting.
Let us close out eyes;
outside their lives go on much faster.
Oh, we won't give in,
we'll keep living in the past.
Too Old to Rock 'N' Roll: Too Young to Die
The old Rocker wore his hair too long,
wore his trouser cuffs too tight.
Unfashionable to the end drank his ale too light.
Death's head belt buckle yesterday's dreams
the transport cafe prophet of doom.
Ringing no change in his double-sewn seams
in his post-war-babe gloom.Now he's too old to Rock'n'Roll but he's too young to die.
He once owned a Harley Davidson and a Triumph Bonneville.
Counted his friends in burned-out spark plugs
and prays that he always will.
But he's the last of the blue blood greaser boys
all of his mates are doing time:
married with three kids up by the ring road
sold their souls straight down the line.And some of them own little sports cars
and meet at the tennis club do's.
For drinks on a Sunday work on Monday.
They've thrown away their blue suede shoes.Now they're too old to Rock'n'Roll and they're too young to die.
So the old Rocker gets out his bike
to make a ton before he takes his leave.
Up on the A1 by Scotch Corner
just like it used to be.
And as he flies tears in his eyes
his wind-whipped words echo the final take
and he hits the trunk road doing around 120
with no room left to brake.And he was too old to Rock'n'Roll but he was too young to die.
No, you're never too old to Rock'n'Roll if you're too young to die.
Songs From The Wood
Let me bring you songs from the wood:
to make you feel much better than you could know.
Dust you down from tip to toe.
Show you how the garden grows.
Hold you steady as you go.
Join the chorus if you can:
it'll make of you an honest man.Let me bring you love from the field:
poppies red and roses filled with summer rain.
To heal the wound and still the pain
that threatens again and again
as you drag down every lover's lane.
Life's long celebration's here.
I'll toast you all in penny cheer.Let me bring you all things refined:
galliards and lute songs served in chilling ale.
Greetings well met fellow, hail!
I am the wind to fill your sail.
I am the cross to take your nail:
A singer of these ageless times.
With kitchen prose and gutter rhymes.
Songs from the wood make you feel much better.
The Whistler
I'll buy you six bay mares to put in your stable
six golden apples bought with my pay.
I am the first piper who calls the sweet tune,
but I must be gone by the seventh day.So come on, I'm the whistler.
I have a fife and a drum to play.
Get ready for the whistler.
I whistle along on the seventh day
whistle along on the seventh day.All kinds of sadness I've left behind me.
Many's the day when I have done wrong.
But I'll be yours for ever and ever.
Climb in the saddle and whistle along.So come on, I'm the whistler.
I have a fife and a drum to play.
Get ready for the whistler.
I whistle along on the seventh day
whistle along on the seventh day.Deep red are the sun-sets in mystical places.
Black are the nights on summer-day sands.
We'll find the speck of truth in each riddle.
Hold the first grain of love in our hands.
Stormy Monday Blues
I said they call it Stormy Monday
But I said Tuesday's just as bad.
I said they call it Stormy Monday
Tuesday is just as bad.
Wednesday's full of sorrow,
I said that Thursday's oh-so, it's oh-so-sad. It's oh-so-sad.I said lord, lord, why don't you have mercy,
You gotta have mercy on me.
So I'm trying to find my woman,
Won't you bring her home to me?
I said they call it stormy Monday.
I'm Your Gun
Blew my smoke on a sunny day,
when the first black powder came my way.
Hot lead ball from a muzzle cold
to win fair lady and take your gold.
I know it hardly seems the time (I am your gun)
to talk of blue steel so sublime. (I am your gun)
I can understand your point of view. (I am your gun)
To tell the truth I'd scare me too.Match, wheel and flintlock, they all caught your eye.
Pearl-handled ladies' models, scaled down to size.
I am the peacemaker, so the theory goes.
But I don't choose the company I keep and it shows.I am your gun.
Love me, I'm your gun.Maxim and Browning, they helped me along.
Stoner, Kalashnikov thrilled to my song.
Now one of me exists, for each one of you,
So how can you blame me for the things that I do?Now I take second place to the motor car (I am your gun)
in the score of killing kept thus far. (I am your gun)
And just remember, if you don't mind (I am your gun)
it's not the gun that kills but the man behind.
I am your gun.
I am your gun.
I am your gun.
I am your gun.
Crossword
Walking on air, shoulder and head above you.
Down in the street, black canyons walking through.
Hooded sad eyes, fixed on your shuffle shoes.
Life is a clue in your crossword.Typewriter turk. Telephone terror takes time to wind down.
Push-button finger shakes.
City of dreams. Back to your quiet nightmare.
Your life is a clue in the crossword.Working to rule in your own time.
Drag yourself home to your star sign page.
Staying awake on cold yesterday's steak and warm beer.Ladder of string - climbing to sweet success.
Homework aside. Your brain on the train to test.
Pick up the news (you left on the seat beside you).
Your life is a clue in the crossword.
Under Wraps
Keep it quiet. (Go slow.)
Circulate. Need to know.
Stamp the date upon your file
masquerade, but well worth while.
Wrapped in the warmth of you
wrapped up in your smile.
Wrapped in the folds of your attention.Wear an air (keep mum)
of casual indifference.Careful how you go
about your usual business.Wrapped in daydreams of you
wrapped up by your eyes.
Wrapped in the folds of your attention.
Under wraps! I've got you under wraps.
Under wraps! I've got you under wraps.Tell you when (not yet)
soon the great unveiling.
Bless my boots! Upon my soul!
Secrecy, it is my failing.
Wrapped in your Summer night
wrapped in your Autumn leaves.
Wrapped in the Winter of your sleeping.
Black Sunday
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 soonThe 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 soonAnd 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 soonPick 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 soonAnd 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
Heavy Horses
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.
Grace
Hello sun.
Hello bird.
Hello my lady.
Hello breakfast.
May I buy you again tomorrow?