|
It was seven in the morning |
|
When the spark began to give |
|
The bath was spilling over |
|
My self pity spilling with it |
|
So I, I fled the country |
|
To start it all again |
|
And found myself in Paris |
|
In the cemetery rain |
|
Dear Anne came to me and took me by the arm |
|
Showed me old disasters embedded in the palm |
|
Warned me of a lady with the sun behind her head |
|
With a a granite neck, a singer who can never sing again |
|
But you my love, you must come |
|
Come to joy, turn your head to the sun |
|
Its down to you, you can shine |
|
You can shake all the sorrow from your palm |
|
It's down to you if you dare to come to joy |
|
What was it I ran from, what burnt away inside? |
|
Four hundred schoolboys and a lawyer at my side |
|
Always running with these legs going nowhere |
|
A ghost in the system and angel on the stairs |
|
But oh, this time |
|
I shall turn, turn my head to the sun |
|
They are marching out of me |
|
One by one walking free |
|
Oh, they're going out of |
|
Oh, I can feel it moving, this time I'm really moving |
|
Are you ready to come? Come to joy |
|
Well, it's really down to you if you dare to enjoy |
|
It's down to you, hold the key in your hands |
|
It's all in the palm of your hands |
