STORMWATCH North Sea Oil Black and viscous bound to cure blue lethargy. Sugar-plum petroleum for energy. Tightrope-balanced payments need a small reprieve Oh, please believe we want to be in North Sea… in North Sea Oil. New-found wealth sits on the shelf of yesterday. Hot-air balloon inflation soon will make you pay. Riggers rig and diggers dig their shallow grave. But we'll be saved and what we crave is North Sea… is North Sea Oil. Prices boom in Aberdeen and London Town. Ten more years to lay the fears, erase the frown. Before we are all nuclear the better way! Oh, let us pray: we want to stay in North Sea… in North Sea… in North Sea Oil. Orion Orion, won't you give me your star sign. Orion, get up on the sky-line. I'm high on my hill and I feel fine. Orion, let's sip the heaven's heady wine. Orion, light your lights: come guard the open spaces from the black horizon to the pillow where I lie. Your faithful dog shines brighter than its lord and master. Your jewelled sword twinkles as the world rolls by. So come up singing above the cloudy cover stare through at people who toss fitful in their sleep. I know you're watching as the old gent by the station scuffs his toes on old fag packets lying in the street. Orion, won't you give me your star sign. Orion, get up on the sky-line. I'm high on my hill and I feel fine. Orion, let's sip the heaven's heady wine. And silver shadows flick across the closing bistro. Sweet waiters link their arms and patter down the street, their words lost blowing on cold winds in darkest Chelsea. Prime years fly fading with each young heart's beat. Orion, won't you make me a star sign. Orion, get up on the sky-line. I'm high on your love and I feel fine. Orion, let's sip the heaven's heady wine. And young girls shiver as they wait by lonely bus-stops after sad parties: no-one to take them home to greasy bed-sitters and make a late-night play for lost virginity a thousand miles away. Orion, won't you make me a star sign. Orion, get up on the sky-line. I'm high on your love and I feel fine. Orion, let's sip the heaven's heady wine. Home As the dawn sun breaks over sleepy gardens I'll be here to do all things to comfort you. And though I've been away left you alone this way why don't you come awake and let your first smile take me home. The shadows in the park were longer yesterday and Lady Luck stood still, waiting for the kill. And on a jumbo ride over seas grey, deep and wide I flew for heaven's sake and let the angels take me home. Down steep and narrow lanes I see the chimneys smoking above the golden fields… know what the robin feels in his summer jamboree. All elements agree in sweet and stormy blend midwife to winds that send me home. Dark Ages Darlings are you ready for the long winter's fall? Said the lady in her parlor said the butler in the hall. Is there time for another? Cried the drunkard in his sleep. Not likely said the little child. What's done the Lord can keep. And the vicar stands a-praying. And the television dies as the white dot flickers and is gone and no-one stops to cry. Dark Ages shaking the dead Closed pages better not read Cold rages burn in your head. The big jet rumbles over runway miles that scar the patchwork green where slick tycoons and rich buffoons have opened up the seam of golden nights and champagne flights ad-man overkill and in the haze consumer crazed we take the sugar pill. Dark Ages shaking the dead Closed pages better not read Cold rages burn in your head. Jagged fires mark the picket lines the politicians weep and mealy-mouthed down corridors of power on tip-toe creep. Come and see bureaucracy make its final heave and let the new disorder through while senses take their leave. Dark Ages shaking the dead Closed pages better not read Cold rages burn in your head. Families screaming line the streets and put the windows through in corner shops where keepers kept the country's life-blood blue. Take their pick and try the trick with loaves and fishes shared and the vicar shouts as the lights go out, and no-one really cares. Dark Ages shaking the dead Closed pages better not read Cold rages burn in your head. Darlings are you ready for the long winter's fall? Said the lady in her parlor said the butler in the hall. Dark Ages shaking the dead Closed pages better not read Cold rages burn in your head. Warm Sporran [Instrumental] Something's On The Move She wore a black tiara rare gems upon her fingers and she came from distant waters where northern lights explode to celebrate the dawning of the new wastes of winter gathering royal momentum on the icy road. With chill mists swirling like petticoats in motion sighted on horizons for ten thousand years the lady of the ice sounds a deathly distant rumble to Titanic-breaking children lost in melting crystal tears. Capturing black pieces in a glass-fronted museum the white queen rolls on the chessboard of the dawn squeezing through the valleys pausing briefly in the corries the Ice-Mother mates and a new age is born. Driving all before her un-stoppable, un-straining her cold creaking mass follows reindeer down. Thin spreading fingers seek to embrace the sill-warm bundles that huddle on the doorsteps of a white London Town. Oh, sunshine take me now away from here I'm a needle on a spiral in a groove. And the turntable spins as the last waltz begins And the weather-man says something's on the move. Old Ghosts Hair stands high on the cat's back like a ridge of threatening hills. Sheepdogs howl, make tracks and growl their tails hanging low. And young children falter in their games at the altar of life's hide-and-seek between tall pillars, where Sunday-night killers in grey raincoats peek. Misty colours unfold a backcloth cold fine tapestry of silk I draw around me like a cloak and soundless glide a-drifting on eddies whirled in beech leaves furled brown and gold they fly in the warm mesh of sunlight sifting now from a cloudless sky. I'll be coming again like an old dog in pain Blown through the eye of the hurricane Down to the stones where old ghosts play. Dun Ringill Spoken Intro: (Lines join in faint discord and the stormwatch brews a concert of kings as the white sea snaps at the heels of a soft prayer whispered.....) Clear light on a slick palm as I mis-deal the day. Slip the night from a shaved pack make a marked card play. Call twilight hours down from a heaven home high above the highest bidder for the good Lord's throne. In the wee hours I'll meet you down by Dun Ringill. Oh, and we'll watch the old gods play by Dun Ringill, by Dun Ringill. We'll wait in stone circles 'til the force comes through. Lines join in faint discord and the stormwatch brews a concert of kings as the white sea snaps at the heels of a soft prayer whispered. In the wee hours I'll meet you down by Dun Ringill. Oh, and I'll take you quickly by Dun Ringill, by Dun Ringill, by Dun Ringill. Flying Dutchman Old lady with a barrow; life near ending Standing by the harbour wall; warm wishes sending children on the cold sea swell not fishers of men gone to chase away the last herring: come empty home again. So come all you lovers of the good life on your supermarket run Set a sail of your own devising and be there when the Dutchman comes. Wee girl in a straw hat: from far east warring Sad cargo of an old ship: young bodies whoring Slow ocean hobo ports closed to her crew No hope of immigration keep on passing through. So come all you lovers of the good life your children playing in the sun set a sympathetic flag a-flying and be there when the Dutchman comes. Death grinning like a scarecrow Flying Dutchman Seagull pilots flown from nowhere try and touch one as she slips in on the full tide and the harbour-master yells All hands vanished with the captain no one left, the tale to tell. So come all you lovers of the good life Look around you, can you see? Staring ghostly in the mirror it's the Dutchman you will be floating slowly out to sea in a misty misery. Elegy [Instrumental] |