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This town, this stain on the sunrise, |
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Disguised in the mist this morning, |
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It's 8AM, a seagull shouts a sailor's warning. |
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This sky, this bend in the river, |
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Slows down and delivers me, the tide rolls back, |
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And all my memories fade to black, |
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And yet, and yet...I'm back. |
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This town has a strange magnetic pull, |
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Like a homing signal in your skull, |
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And you sail by the stars of the hemisphere, |
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Wondering how in the Hell did ye end up here? |
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It's like an underground river, or a hidden stream, |
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That flows through your head, and haunts your dreams, |
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And you stuffed those dreams in this canvas sack, |
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And there's nothing round here that the wide world lacks, |
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And yet, and yet...You're back. |
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Some nights I'd lie on the deck and I'd stare at the turning of the stars, |
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Those constellations hanging up there from the cables and the rigging, |
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I'd wonder if she saw the same, or managed to recall my name, |
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But why would she ever think of me? Some boy she loved who fled to sea? |
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And why waste time debating whether she'd be waiting for the likes of me? |
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So ye drift into port with the scum of the seas, |
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To the dance halls and the brothels where you took your ease! |
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And the ship's left the dock but you're half past caring, |
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And ye haven't got a clue whose bed you're sharing. |
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And your head's like a hammer on a bulkhead door, |
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And it feels like somebody might have broken your jaw, |
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And there's bloodstains and glass all over the floor, |
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And ye swear to God ye'll drink no more, |
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And yet, and yet. |
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In truth, it's too late to find her, |
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Too late to remind her at some garden gate, |
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Where a servant tells me I should wait, |
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And perhaps a door's slammed in my face, |
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My head must be in outer space, |
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And yet, and yet, |
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Before the sun has set, |
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Before the sea, |
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There may be something else that's waiting for, |
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The likes of me. |
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This town, this stain on the sunrise... |
