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On a morning from a Bogart movie |
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In a country where they turn back time |
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You go strolling through the crowd like Peter Lorre |
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Contemplating a crime |
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She comes out of the sun in a silk dress running |
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Like a watercolour in the rain |
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Don't bother asking for explanations |
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She'll just tell you that she came |
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In the year of the cat. |
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She doesn't give you time for questions |
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As she locks up your eyes in hers |
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And you follow 'till your sense of which direction |
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Completely disappears |
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By the blue tiled walls near the market stalls |
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There's a hidden door she leads you to |
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These days, she says, I feel my life |
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Just like a river running through |
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The year of the cat |
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She looks at you so cooly |
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And her eyes shine like the moon in the sea |
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She comes in incense and patchouli |
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So you take her, to find what's waiting inside |
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The year of the cat. |
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Well morning comes and you're still with her |
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And the bus and the tourists are gone |
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And you've thrown away the choice and lost your ticket |
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So you have to stay on |
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But the drum-beat strains of the night remain |
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In the rhythm of the new-born day |
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You know sometime you're bound to lose her |
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BUt for now you're going to stay |
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In the year of the cat. |
