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I walk by the water and |
|
Head for your house |
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Though I know that you'll be out |
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In some dirty city bar |
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I stand on your street |
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And I stare at your room |
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And the shadows play and move |
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And your brother comes out with a bat |
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Saying that |
|
You might be with your sister in Paris |
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On the Rue Turnau |
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Wearing Marline Dietrich glasses |
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Where we made that bet |
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That bet I knew you'd win for sure |
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When you where sick on the floor |
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The calico's ripped |
|
Beneath the patch |
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It's an itch I can never scratch |
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Now it's so far gone in the past |
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The fines I'm |
|
Having trouble to contest |
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With the library book you kept |
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The one that sent your head so far west |
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Far far away |
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In those continental cities |
|
Where they get in a race |
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To see who can build the tallest buildings |
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Where you went for some space |
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And wound up |
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With a slightly redder face |
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And a pain in your gut |
|
I turn on the TV |
|
And I see there your face |
|
And in it is not one trace |
|
Of that old brown bowl of lace |
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And that bowl of lace |
|
Is sat beside the gas bar fire |
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Where you probably laid |
|
Eating ice cream chocolate lollies |
|
That your mother brought home |
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From the freezer store |
|
On the Old Kent Road |
|
She too had enough |
|
And that look on your face |
|
That you'd throw across the dinner table |
|
In the middle of grace |
|
Your fathers eyes closed shut tight |
|
And it happend like that |
|
Every damn night |
|
That I had to come |
|
To your house |
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Well tell Charles O'Keefe |
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That I don't want to go to Paris |
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It's sunnier here |
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And I'm happy in this loveless marriage |
|
With the girl from the Pru |
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And your father and your sister |
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And your mother too |
|
And not forgetting you |
