I flew in on the evening plane. Is it such a good idea that I am here again? And I could cut my cold breath with a knife. And taste the winter of another life.
A yellow cab from JFK, the long way round. I didn't mind... gave me thinking time before I ran aground on rocky memories and choking tears. I believe it only rained round here in thirty years.
Now, it's the first snow on Brooklyn and my cold feet are drumming. You don't see me in the shadows from your cozy window frame. And last night, who was in your parlour wrapping presents in the late hour to place upon your pillow as the morning came?
Thin wind stings my face... pull collar up. I could murder coffee in a grande cup. No welcome deli; there's no Starbucks here. A dime for a quick phone call could cost me dear.
And the first snow on Brooklyn paints a Christmas card upon the pavement. The cab leaves a disappearing trace and then it's gone. And the snow covers my footprints, deep regrets and heavy heartbeats. When you wake you'll never see the spot that I was standing on.
Some things are best forgotten... some are better half-remembered. I just thought that I might be there on your, on your Christmas night. And the first snow on Brooklyn makes a lonely road to travel - cold crunch steps that echo as the blizzard bites.
Good morning Weathercock, How'd you fare last night? Did the cold wind bite you, Did you face up to the fright When the leaves spin from October And whip around your tail? Did you shake from the blast, And did you shiver through the gale?
Give us direction, the best of goodwill, Put us in touch with fair winds. Sing to us softly, hum evening's song, Tell us what the blacksmith has done for you.
Do you simply reflect changes In the patterns of the sky, Or is it true to say the weather heeds The twinkle in your eye? Do you fight the rush of winter, And hold snowflakes at bay? Do you lift the dawn sun from the fields And help him on his way?
Good morning Weathercock, make this day bright. Put us in touch with your fair winds. Sing to us softly, hum evening's song. Point the way to better days we can share with you.
Sister Bridget by the stair: a glass of wine and she's almost there. Cousin Jimmy at the door: another beer and he's on the floor. Friends and neighbours come around, Waste no time we're heaven-bound. But not before we raise a glass to good camaraderie.
Stinky Joe from down the street fell right over his own three feet. He's doubled up in the outside loo, to taste again the devil's brew. Friends and neighbours come around, Waste no time we're heaven-bound. But not before we raise a glass to good camaraderie.
So make yourselves jolly under mistletoe, holly and ivy. Get to it ? and be in good cheer. And when it's all over: pigs gone to clover ? Will the last man at the party wish me a happy New Year.
The house is jumping, suppers up. Curried goat in a paper cup. Forks of plastic, knives of tin: who cares what state the goat is in. Someone with the gift of song Has brought his pal to sing along. Now they're turning up old Frank Sinatra on the stereo.
So make yourselves jolly under mistletoe, holly and ivy. Get to it ? and be in good cheer. And when it's all over: pigs gone to clover ? Will the last man at the party wish me a happy New Year.
Sister Bridget by the stair: a glass of wine and she's almost there. Cousin Jimmy at the door: another beer and he's on the floor. Friends and neighbours come around, Waste no time we're heaven-bound. But not before we raise a glass to good camaraderie.
So make yourselves jolly under mistletoe, holly and ivy. Get to it ? and be in good cheer. And when it's all over: pigs gone to clover ? Will the last man at the party wish me a happy New Year. (x2)
Through long December nights we talk in words of rain or snow While you, through chattering teeth, reply and curse us as you go. Why not spare a thought this day for those who have no flame To warm their bones at Christmas time? Say Jack Frost and the Hooded Crow.
Now as the last broad oak leaf falls, we beg: consider this --- there's some who have no coin to save for turkey, wine or gifts. No children's laughter round the fire, no family left to know.
So lend a warm and a helping hand --- Say Jack Frost and the Hooded Crow.
As holly pricks and ivy clings, Your fate is none too clear. The Lord may find you wanting, let your good fortune disappear. All homely comforts blown away and all that's left to show Is to share your joy at Christmas time With Jack Frost and the Hooded Crow.
Hope everybody's ringing on their own bell this fine morning Hope everyone's connected to that long distance phone Old man he's a mountain Old man he's an island Old man he's a-waking says "I'm going to call, call all my children home"
Hope everybody's dancing to their own drum this fine morning The beat of distant Africa or a Polish factory town Old man he's calling for his supper Calling for his whisky Calling for his sons and daughters, yeah Calling, calling all his children round
Sharp ears are tuned in to the drones and chanters warming Mist blowing round some headland, somewhere in your memory Everyone is from somewhere Even if you've never been there So take a minute to remember the part of you That might be the old man calling me
How many wars you fighting out there this winter's morning? Maybe there's always time for another christmas song Old man is asleep now Got appointments to keep now Dreaming of his sons and daughters, and proving Proving that the blood is strong
Got a birthday card at Christmas... it made me think of Jesus Christ. It said, "I love you" in small letters. I simply had to read it twice. Wood smoke curled from blackened chimneys. The smell of frost was in the air. Pole star hovered in the blackness. I looked again... it wasn't there.
People have showered me with presents. While their minds were fixed on other things. Sleigh bells, bearded red suit uncles. Pointy trees and angel wings. I am the shadow in your Christmas. I am the corner of your smile. Perfunctory in celebration. You offer content but no style.
That little baby Jesus... he got a birthday card or three. Gold trinkets and cheap frankincense. Some penny baubles for his tree. Have some time off for good behaviour. Forty days, give or take a few. Hey there, sweet baby Jesus... Let's share a birthday card with you.
I count the hours: you count the days. Together, we count the minutes in this Passion Play. Walk dusty miles. And I ride that train on a first class ticket, just to be with you again.
Picking up tired feet. Back from a far horizon. Cleaned up and brushed down. Dressed to look the part. Fresh from God's garden, I bring a gift of roses: To stand in sweet spring water and press them to your heart.
Like the Kipling cat, I walk alone - Never inviting trouble, never casting the stone. But this badge of honour is of tarnished tin. Light your guiding beacon to bring this fisher in.
Rusted and ropy. Dog-eared old copy. Vintage and classic, or just plain Jurassic: all words to describe me.
Relaxed in the knowledge that happily present are all things to sustain me, nurture and claim me: roll back the mileage.
You have settled beside me. To the far and the wide of me. A matter of choosing, of finding and losing on the rough ride with me.
Take whisky with water, kick stones down the gutter. Think back to long days with stale breath recycled in my face. Rattling through airways - plastic on cold trays. Watching through windows, deep landscapes below await another time and space.
There must come some time to walk through the night line. Hands tight: heads high. These are the dog-ear years. Don't turn back. Don't linger. For God's sake keep moving. Primitive shadows sidle beside.
She's catching the wind: the gentlest of breezes. It's a sensitive passage she's sailing - Through stormy straits, navigates my unfathomable failings.
She rises before me, reading me clearly. Empty nest left pressed in the pillow. She can shift, she can sway and bend like a willow.
I'm swept in the riptide, caught in a fish trap. Gift-wrapped in my soft self centre. Summer sun leaves me as one who can only taste winter. She's a good, a good God-send: she can bend like a willow.
With a fully armed angel to cover me quickly. I'm cool under enemy fire. If I fall, she can crawl right under the wire.
When I'm caustic and cold, she might dare to be bold - ease me round to her warm way of thinking: fill me up from the cup of love that she's drinking. And I find, given time. I can bend like a willow. She bends like a willow.
