LIVE AT HAMMERSMITH '84

Locomotive Breath

[Instrumental]
 

Hunting Girl

One day I walked the road and crossed a field to go by where the hounds ran hard.
And on the master raced: behind the hunters chased to where the path was barred.
One fine young lady's horse refused the fence to clear.
I unlocked the gate but she did wait until the pack had disappeared.

Crop handle carved in bone; sat high upon a throne of finest English leather.

The queen of all the pack, this joker raised his hat and talked about the weather.
All should be warned about this high born Hunting Girl.
She took this simple man's downfall in hand; I raised the flag that she unfurled.

Boot leather flashing and spurnecks the size of my thumb.
This highborn hunter had tastes as strange as they come.
Unbridled passion: I took the bit in my teeth.
Her standing over me on my knees underneath.

My lady, be discrete. I must get to my feet and go back to the farm.
Whilst I appreciate you are no deviate, I might come to some harm.
I'm not inclined to acts refined, if that's how it goes.
Oh, high born Hunting Girl, I'm just a normal low born so and so.
 

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.
 

Later, That Same Evening

Later, that same evening, she ran.
I think she ran alone.
Later, she had early warning from
a hidden phone.
Checked with the embassy
she might have been
a million miles away.
Should I circulate her likeness
at all airports without delay?
It was later later that same evening.

Earlier, we had had a drink or four
in some Kensington hotel.
Hard it was hard to keep my mind
on what she had to sell.
And with all business done
we took a cab
should it be her place or mine?
Good security prevailed
and I was home just after nine.
It was later later that same evening.

Now I want you back.
Yes, they want you back.
We want you back.
My country wants you back.

Later, in the wee small hours
there was heavy traffic on the radio.

Scare at a channel port
small craft warnings to keep to shore.
Lobstermen thought they saw
a submarine
half submerged suspiciously.
Though I arrived too late,
I'm sure she blew a kiss to me
as the sub sailed out to sea.
 

Pussy Willow

In the half-tone light of a young morning
she sighs and shifts on the pillow.
And across her face dancing, the first shadows fly
to kiss the Pussy Willow.

In her fairy-tale world she's a lost soul singing
in a sad voice nobody hears.
She waits in her castle of make-believing
for her white knight to appear.

Pusy Willow - down fur-lined avenue
brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.
Runs for the train - see, eight o'clock's coming
cutting dreams down to size again.

Pussy Willow - down fur-lined avenue
brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.
Runs from the train. Hear her typewriter humming
cutting dreams down to size again.

She longs for the East and a pale dress flowing
an apartment in old Mayfair.
Or to fish the Spey, spinning the first run of Spring
or to die for a cause somewhere.

Pussy Willow - down fur-lined avenue
brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.
Runs from the train. Hear her typewriter humming
cutting dreams down to size again.
 

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 our eyes;
outside their lives go on much faster.
Oh, we won't give in,
we'll keep living in the past.
 

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.
 

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.