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(dick/boult/simmonds) |
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He met the world as a dalkeith boy, |
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Raised from a shaft at monktonhall |
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In a well oiled cage, |
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That locked away his dreams, |
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An '85 veteran face from the gallery, |
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A ghost from the civil war in the family |
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He stood his ground on the picketline |
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'til all that he was left with |
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Were his father's cough |
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And his mother's eyes |
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That would hold a tear |
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For the very first time |
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When the government took his job away. |
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Now fist in hand he'll stand in line |
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Declare his name and mark his time |
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To some the only proof that they're alive |
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He could have been you |
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He could have been me |
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He could have been anybody |
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But he was born lucky |
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He made his first down payment |
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On a sharp italian suit |
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He sewed razor blades into the lapels, |
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See him sweating on the dance floor, |
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Cool dust oozing out of every pore |
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A hard man with a hard life, |
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And that's a story that he'll tell you |
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Down at easter road till his throat is raw |
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On a saturday, he knows the score |
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Till the whistle blows and, |
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The colours with their tempers fade away. |
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He could have been you |
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He could have been me |
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He could have been anybody |
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But he was born lucky |
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On the helipads at aberdeen, |
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Bound for platforms drilling oil rich seas, |
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Where the trawlers are getting fewer every year. |
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By the furnaces at ravenscraig, |
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By the padlocks holding john brown's gates, |
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In the desert, in the fields of south armagh, |
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Where the poppies grow, |
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Behind the hampden roar, |
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Behind the drums in genoa. |
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On the deck that rides a south atlantic swell, |
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Born to figh tout of the tightest corner. |
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You can bet on him with the odds against you. |
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They'll not put him down |
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No matter how they try. |
