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Daemon had just dropped by to pass the time |
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With a peaceful cigarette |
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Or maybe with a roll-up filter-tip |
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He'd still not made it yet |
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Yes, went on down that old cafe |
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By the harbour for a little change of view |
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Took a seat next to the window |
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Like he would like to do |
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Saw the fishing boats |
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The time children fighting over an ice-cream cone |
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And a pack of Camels on the shelf and beach |
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Through the rings of smoke he'd blown |
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Chimney shadows of the factories |
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Grey walls across the floor |
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Telegraph-poles and sandy coves |
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Running down and alone to the shore |
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Yes, and the statue by the quayside |
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Of the lancer, once so proud and brave |
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All in remembrance of his heroic deeds |
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As he lies at peace in his grave |
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Yes, in eighteen twenty-four |
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Somebody had won a war for sure, he thought |
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And there were flags and ribbons waving |
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There was feast and celebration, in the air cries of joys |
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While outside by a steam-shovel |
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Was a child playing with a toy |
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Cheap evening return |
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Cheap evening return |
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Cheap evening return |
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Yes, in nineteen thirty-four |
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Somebody had lost a war |
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There was trial and tribulation |
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Oh and the laundry lines with pants that dance |
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Shirts flying in the careless breeze |
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Overgrown garden-house, glass, doctor, leaves |
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Falling from the trees |
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Like merging into one, lemmings on the run |
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Perhaps should be somewhere else, who could |
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Slithering down the sky was candy floss |
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The child had tossed it up against the window pane |
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And by nineteen something or other |
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Yes somebody might like another war |
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There could be nothin' left to fight for anymore |
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There'll be feast and celebration, in the air cries of joy |
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While outside by a little barrel |
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Was a child playing with a toy |
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Cheap evening return |
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Cheap evening return |
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Cheap evening return |
