A Little Light Music Some Day The Sun Won't Shine For You In the morning - gonna get my things together. Packing up and I'm leaving this place. I don't believe you'll cry, there'll be a smile upon your face. I didn't think how much you'd hurt me. That's something that I laugh about. Bring in the good times, baby. And let the bad times out. That old sun keeps on shining, But someday it won't shine for you. In the morning I'll be leaving. I'll leave your mother too. Living In The Past [Instrumental] Life Is A Long Song When you're falling awake and you take stock of the new day, and you hear your voice croak as you choke on what you need to say, well, don't you fret, don't you fear, I will give you good cheer. Life's a long song. Life's a long song. Life's a long song. If you wait then your plate I will fill. As the verses unfold and your soul suffers the long day, and the twelve o'clock gloom spins the room, you struggle on your way. Well, don't you sigh, don't you cry, lick the dust from your eye. Life's a long song. Life's a long song. Life's a long song. We will meet in the sweet light of dawn. As the Baker Street train spills your pain all over your new dress, and the symphony sounds underground put you under duress, well don't you squeal as the heel grinds you under the wheel. Life's a long song. Life's a long song. Life's a long song. But the tune ends too soon for us all. Under Wraps [Instrumental] 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. Nursie Tip-toes in silence `round my bed and quiets the raindrops overhead. With her everlasting smile She still my fever for a while. Oh, nursie dear, I'm glad you're here to brush away my pain. Too Old To Rock'N'Roll: Too Young To Die [Instrumental] One White Duck There's a haze on the skyline, to wish me on my way. And there's a note on the telephone some roses on a tray. And the motorway's stretching right out to us all, as I pull on my old wings one white duck on your wall. Isn't it just too damn real? I'll catch a ride on your violin strung upon your bow. And I'll float on your melody sing your chorus soft and low. There's a picture-view postcard to say that I called. You can see from the fireplace, one white duck on your wall. Isn't it just too damn real? So fly away Peter and fly away Paul from the finger-tip ledge of contentment. The long restless rustle of high-heeled boots calls. And I'm probably bound to deceive you after all. Something must be wrong with me and my brain if I'm so patently unrewarding. But my dreams are for dreaming and best left that way and my zero to your power of ten equals nothing at all. There's no double-lock defense; there's no chain on my door. I'm available for consultation, But remember your way in is also my way out, and love's four-letter word is no compensation. Well, I'm the Black Ace dog-handler: I'm a waiter on skates so don't you jump to your foreskin conclusion. Because I'm up to my deaf ears in cold breakfast trays to be cleared before I can dine on your sweet Sunday lunch confusion. A New Day Yesterday My first and last time with you and we had some fun. wenT walking through the trees, yeah! And then I kissed you once. Oh I want to see you soon but I wonder how. It was a new day yesterday but it's an old day now. Spent a long time looking for a game to play. My luck should be so bad now to turn out this way. Oh I had to leave today just when I thought I'd found you. It was a new day yesterday But it's an old day now. John Barleycorn There were three men, came out of the west, Their fortunes for to try And these three men made a solemn vow: John Barleycorn must die! Well, they've ploughed, they've sown, the've harrowed him in. Threw clouds upon his head. Till these three men were satisfied. John Barleycorn was dead. They've let him lie for a long long time, till the rains from heaven did fall. And little sir John sprang up his head And so amazed them all. They let him fly till the midsummer's day, Till he looked both pale and wan, oh, Then little Sir John has grown a long long beard And so became a man. They have hired men with the scythes so sharp. To cut him off at the knee, They rolled and they tied him around the waist, serving him most him barbarously. They hired men with the sharp pitchforks to prick him to the heart. And the loader he has served him worse than that, for he's bound him to the cart. Well, they've wheeled him 'round and 'round the field, till they came onto a barn. And there they made their solemn oath, concerning a Barleycorn. They hired men with the crab tree sticks to split him skin from bone, yeah, but the miller he has served him worst and bad for he ground him between two stones. Well there's beer all in the barrel and brandy in the glass, but little old sir John with his nut-brown bowl proved the strongest man at last. John Barleycorn, throw him up, throw him up! Now the huntsman, he can't hunt the fox, nor loudly blow his horn And the tinker he can't mend his pots Without John Barleycorn, John Barleycorn, John Barleycorn, Barleycorn, Barleycorn John Barleycorn, John Barleycorn. Look Into The Sun [Instrumental] A Christmas Song Once in Royal David's City stood a lonely cattle shed, where a mother held her baby. You'd do well to remember the things He later said. When you're stuffing yourselves at the Christmas parties, you'll just laugh when I tell you to take a running jump. You're missing the point I'm sure does not need making that Christmas spirit is not what you drink. So how can you laugh when your own mother's hungry, and how can you smile when the reasons for smiling are wrong? And if I just messed up your thoughtless pleasures, remember, if you wish, this is just a Christmas song. (Hey! Santa! Pass us that bottle, will you?) From a Dead Beat to an Old Greaser From a dead beat to an old greaser, here's thinking of you. You won't remember the long nights; coffee bars; black tights and white thighs in shop windows where blonde assistants fully-fashioned a world made of dummies (with no mummies or daddies to reject them). When bombs were banned every Sunday and the Shadows played F.B.I. And tired young sax-players sold their instruments of torture sat in the station sharing wet dreams of Charlie Parker, Jack Kerouac, René Magritte, to name a few of the heroes who were too wise for their own good left the young brood to go on living without them. Old queers with young faces who remember your name, though you're a dead beat with tired feet; two ends that don't meet. To a dead beat from an old greaser. Think you must have me all wrong. I didn't care, friend. I wasn't there, friend, If it's the price of pint that you need, ask me again. This Is Not Love 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. Bourée [Instrumental] Pussy Willow [Instrumental] Locomotive Breath In the shuffling madess of the locomotive breath, runs the all-time loser, headlong to his death. He feels the piston scraping steam breaking on his brow old Charlie stole the handle and the train won't stop going no way to slow down. He sees his children jumping off at the stations - one by one. His woman and his best friend in bed and having fun. He's crawling down the corridor on his hands and knees old Charlie stole the handle and the train won't stop going no way to slow down. He hears the silence howling catches angels as they fall. And the all-time winner has got him by the balls. He picks up Gideons Bible open at page one old Charlie stole the handle and the train won't stop going no way to slow down. |