Winds howled. Rains spit down. All these nights
playing precious games. Cheap hotel in some seaboard town closed down
for the winter and whispered names. Puppy-dog waves on a big moon
sea snap our heels half-heartedly and how come you know better than
me that this is not love. No, this is not love.
Empty drugstore
postcards freeze sunburst images of summers gone. Think I see us in these
promenade days before we learned October's song. Out on the headland,
one gale-whipped tree; curious, head bent to see. And how come you know
better than me that this is not love.
Down to the sad south, smokey
plumes mark that real world city home. Broken spells and silent
gloom ooze from that concrete honeycomb. Puppy-dog waves on a big
moon sea snapped our heels half-heartedly and how come you know better
than me that this is not love.
Occasional Demons
Well, you got a big-jib crane waiting to pick you
up. Mmmm, you see those snakes that crawl, they're just dying to trip you
up. Live out in sad shacks at the back of town. Hold your breath while we
do you down `cos we're all kinds of animals coming here: occasional
demons too.
Well, you got a nice apartment here with appliances and
CD. We're gonna leave your stereo, but we'll have your soul for tea. I'm not
speaking of material things. Gonna chew you up, gonna suck you in `cos
we're all kinds of animals coming here: occasional demons
too.
Smokestacks, belching black, we're the have-nots in your
shade. How about a slice of life, how about some human trade? Eat at
the best table in town. No headwaiter going to turn us down `cos we're all
kinds of animals coming here: occasional demons too.
Roll Yer Own
Roll yer own. Don't mean you got no money. Only that you
got no opportunity to shake it with that friend of mine. Roll yer own if you can't
buy readymade; you won't be satisfied when you feel the sudden need to
unwind. You know what moves you in the wee hours when there's nothing
on the answerphone. And if you don't get enough of that electric love don't
try to get by --- roll yer own, roll it when there's no-one listening: when
those re-runs play on the late-night black and white TV. Roll yer own, roll
it when there's something missing and those wild cats howl, running in the
moonshine.
Roll yer own: you got to hit that spot. Roll yer own when
your hands are hot.
Rocks On The Road
There's a black
cat down on the quayside. Ship's lights, green eyes glowing in the
dark. Two young cops handing out a beating: know how to hurt and leave
no mark. Down in the half-lit bar of the hotel there's a call for the last
round of the day. Push back the stool, take that elevator ride. Fall in bed
and kick my shoes away. Rocks on the road.
Can't sleep through the
wild sound of the city. Hear a car full of young boys heading for a
fight. Long distance telephone keeps ringing out engaged: wonder who
you're talking with tonight. Who you talking with tonight? Rocks on the
road.
Tired plumbing wakes me in the morning. Shower runs hot,
runs cold playing with me. Well, I'm up for the down side, life's a bitch and
all that stuff: so come and shake some apples from my tree. Have to pay
for my minibar madness. Itemised phone bill overload. Well now, how
about some heavy rolling? Move these rocks on the road.
Crumbs on
the breakfast table. And a million other little things to spoil my day. Now
how about a little light music to chase it all away? To chase it all
away.
Sparrow On The Schoolyard Wall
You want to be
a bookworm? You wanna be aloof? You wanna sit in judgement, looking down
from the roof? Try a wee sensation: but first you have to want to join
in. You should be, should be raging down the freeway with some friends
from the mall. Don't stay forever in your limbo: fly before you fall little
sparrow on the schoolyard wall.
So dress a little dangerous and modify
your walk. There's nothing wrong with sparrows, but try to be a
sparrowhawk. Hunting in the evening and floating in the heat in the
day. You might, might acquire some predatory instinct. Do the wolf pack
crawl. Don't stay forever in your limbo: fly before you fall little sparrow on
the schoolyard wall.
Well, I don't want to be your daddy. Don't want
to be your engineer of sin. And I don't want to play the piper here. I'm only
banging on a mandolin and anyway, you're just a little sparrow on the
schoolyard wall.
There's nothing wrong with learning. Nothing
wrong with your books. So exercise some judgement. Too much broth can
spoil the cook. Feel a little sensation and know when it's time to join
in. You should be, should be raging down the freeway with some friends
from the mall. Don't stay forever in your limbo: fly before you fall little
sparrow on the schoolyard wall.
Thinking Round Corners
All of you sit up in bed. Don't think in straight lines
ahead. Can't sleep? Head spin? Don't think in circles, it'll do you in. Think
back to the dream you had; no sense of being good or bad. Jump to the left,
jump to the right. Think round corners into night.
Let's go in wet corridors:
dive down drains. Draw strength from machinery, it's al] the
same. Thinking round corners. Think round corners, I say.
Pretty girl
with neon eyes: best man between white thighs. Bridegroom didn't know a thing:
got his love in lights, she wears two rings. Think back to that dream you
had. Blue boy sorry, pink girl sad. Yellow cow, big-eyed moon all coming
round the corner soon.
Let's stand in rapids: cling to carnivals. Spit
life from the maypole in savage ceremony. Let's go in wet corridors: dive down
drains. Draw strength from machinery, it's all the same. Thinking round
corners. Think round corners, I say.
Paper cowboys, tin drums banging
where the white man comes. Landowners with whips and chains but soft in bed
amidst warm rains. Thinking back to the dream they had. Jack and
Jill. Jack the lad. Homestead. Home free. How about leaving some for
me?
Let's bathe in malt whisky: covet gold finery through the eyes of
a Jackdaw, dressed to the nines. Let's go in wet corridors: dive down
drains. Draw strength from machinery, it's all the same. Thinking round
corners. Think round corners, I say. Thinking round
corners.
Still Loving You Tonight
It's a lonely life I live
and I live this life to go and if I leave you with one thing it's just that I
want you to know I'll still be loving you tonight. I left flowers on your
table, left the lock on your door. Staked a claim in your heartlands, put grain in
your store. I'll still be loving you tonight.
Got fingers on the button of
that telephone dial. Call in and move your mountains, fill your spaces
while I'm still loving you tonight.
You want to know how I can leave
you? How can I move along this way? Too much of a good thing can make
you crazy and it's a good thing that happened to me today. I'll still be
loving you tonight.
Doctor To My Disease
I've been
treated for mild depression and I've been treated for growing pains. I've
been treated for hallucinations; now I can see it all coming again. Well,
you can wind me up. Yeah, you can slow me down. You can dig a little, and you
can mess me around. But there's one thing I should tell you, to which you
must agree: There's no use you playing doctor to my disease. Said it's no
use you playing doctor to my disease.
I got no cure for this
condition that you've been causing me tonight. Well, you put my heart in
overdrive: hand me the bullet I must bite. You can stir me up and you can
cut me down. You can probe a little, push that knife around. But there's
one thing I should tell you, to which you must agree: It's no use you playing
doctor to my disease.
Do you have to break my engine so you can fix
it up again? Tuned to crazy imperfection just to score me out of
ten. Well, you can wind me up. Yeah, you can slow me down. You can dig
a little. Yeah, you can mess me around. But there's one thing I should tell you, to
which you must agree: That it's no use you playing doctor to my
disease.
Like A Tall Thin Girl
Well, I don't care to eat
out in smart restaurants. I'd rather do a Vindaloo: take away is what I
want. I was down at the old Bengal, having telephoned a treat when I saw
her framed in the kitchen door. She looked good enough to eat. (And I
mean eat.) She was a tall thin girl. She looked like a tall thin girl. She
said, ``Whose is this carry-out?'' My face turned chilli red. Well, I don't
know about carrying out, but you can carry me off to bed. (And I mean
bed.) She was a tall thin girl. She moved like a tall thin girl. Maybe I
can fetch for it, and maybe I can stretch for it.
I may not be a fat man
and I'm not exactly small but when it all comes down, couldn't stand my
ground. This girl was tall. (And I mean tall.)
Big boy Doane,
he's a drummer. Don't play no tambourine but he's Madras hot on the bongo
trot, if you know just what I mean. Stands six foot three in his
underwear; going to get him down here and see if this good lady's got a
little sister `bout the same size as me. She was a tall thin girl. She looked
like a tall thin girl. Well, can I fetch for it? Well, maybe I can stretch for
it? Well, am I up for it? Or do I have to go down for it?
White Innocence
She drifted from some minor festival. Didn't look like any
sumrner of love: just a thousand weekend warriors in a muddy field. She
was the hand to fit my glove. Funny thing, the innocence of the
lonely. Funny thing, the charm of the young.
See how she moves just
like two angels (in white innocence). Yet one of them is on the run. The
other's tapping at my car window and I'm squinting through the sun trying
to see if she's some child of the nineties: or just another dangerous fantasy of
mine. Yeah. White innocence. She was white innocence.
A
perfect hole was in her stocking: it made a perfect window to her heart. I
could have moved among her waterfalls: her misty curtains drawn
apart. Did she see warm safety in my numbers to want to hitch a ride this
way? Felt like I was taking her to market now to be sold as the last lot of
the day. Funny thing, the distance of the lonely. Funny thing, the charm of
the young. White innocence.
She pressed the button, lowered the
window: let her hand trail in the slipstream of the night. A frost from
nowhere seemed to lick her fingers: I could have warmed them, but the moment
wasn't right. Obvious, she was headed nowhere special: yes, well it was
even obvious to me. I was doing some, some watching, some waiting: she'd
been here before, most definitely.
There was the promise of early
bed-time. There was the promise of heaven on earth. Think I was sending
out low-voltage electricity: played it right down for what it was worth. She
turned and looked at me in white innocence and with the clearest eyes of forever
grey she rested one small hand for a second on my knee: I stopped the car.
She walked away. Funny thing, the wisdom of the lonely. Funny thing, the
charm of the young. Away you go now. White
innocence.
Sleeping With The Dog
Her love is like a
candle: you light it up at night. Her heart is like a pack of cards: one chance to
guess it right. Sometimes I do. She's got a tongue like a viper, but she can
whisper like a dove. Soft touch like brushed velvet: till she hits you from
above. And sometimes she does.
She leaves me breathing: down like
a fallen log. Just when I feel like dancing I wake up sleeping with the
dog. And it goes: (woof) sleeping with the dog.
I have to guess at the
mysteries of her unfathomable soul. Guess when the time seems right to
make a broken spirit whole and that time is due. C'm'on.
She leaves
me breathing: down like a fallen log and just when I feel like dancing I
wake up sleeping with the dog. And it goes: (woof) sleeping with the
dog.
Gold-Tipped Boots, Black Jacket And Tie
I'm
banered and bruised. I got lines I can't use. My head won't deliver. Well, I'm sold
down the river. But I'm turning again. Yes, `n' I'm turning
again. Well, I'm turning again. And I'm turning again. Wearing
gold-tipped boots, black jacket and tie.
Well, I've been second to
none: this horse was ready to run. Now I'm has-been and
used: disarmed and de-fused but I'm turning again. And I'm turning
again. Yes, `n' I'm turning again. I'm turning again. Wearing
gold-tipped boots, black jacket and tie.
I'm egg over-easy and I'm
washing-up squeezy. Appliance for sale: fat wind in my sail and I'm
turning again. Yes, `n' I'm turning again. Well, I'm turning again. Yes,
`n' I'm turning again. Wearing gold-tipped boots, black jacket and
tie. Well, I'm turning again.
When Jesus Came To Play
I was in my watering-hole with some ugly friends of mine when
he door came off its hinges like a cork from fizzy wine. He said, ``My name is
Jesus: I'm the leader of the band. Got to set up my equipment, if you boys can
lend a hand.'' Oh yeah. When Jesus came to play.
He set that
bandstand jumping. Yeah, and he cranked it up so loud. And he moved up to the
microphone: had the attention of the crowd. He said, ``My name is Jesus: going
to turn your head around. I'm going to make this easy. Got no time to mess
around.'' Oh yeah. When Jesus came to play.
``I got no twelve
disciples, and I got no cross to bear. If you thought they had me crucified, I
guess you weren't there.'' Oh yeah. When Jesus came to play. When Jesus
came...
He sang about three or four numbers, but we'd heard it all
before. We boys were getting restless: no girls were moving on the
floor. Those parables, they were merciless and the tables overturned. And
there were no minor miracles but false prophets they were burned. Well,
maybe he was Jesus; but his hair could have used a comb. Long before he
hit the last notes, we boys had all gone home. Oh yeah. When Jesus came to
play.