In the shuffling madness Of the locomotive breath Runs the all time loser Headlong to his death Oh, he feels the pistons screaming Steam breaking on his brow Old Charlie stole the handle And the train it won't stop going No way to slow down
He sees his children jumpin’ off At stations one by one His woman and his best friend In bed and having fun So he's crawling down the corridor On his hands and knees Old Charlie stole the handle And the train it 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 Oh, he picks up Gideon's Bible Open at page one I think God, he stole the handle And the train it won't stop going No way to slow down
No way to slow down No way to slow down No way to slow down No way to slow down
Meanwhile back in the year one, When you belonged to no one, You didn't stand a chance, son, If your pants were undone.
'Cause you were bred, for humanity And sold to society One day you'll wake up, in the present day A million generations removed from expectations Of being who you really want to be.
Skating away, skating away, skating away, On the thin ice of the new day
So as you push off from the shore, Won't you turn your head once more And make your peace with everyone. For those who choose to stay Will live just one more day, To do the things they should've done. And as you cross the wilderness, Spinning in your emptiness If you have to, pray. Looking for a sign, that the universal minds Has written you into the passion play.
Skating away, skating away, skating away On the thin ice of the new day
And as you cross the circle line, Well the ice wall creaks behind You're a rabbit on the run. And the silver splinters fly In the corner of your eye, Shining in the setting sun. Well do you ever get the feeling That the story's too damn real And in the present tense. Or that everbody's on the stage And it seems like you're the only Person sitting in the audience
Skating away, skating away, skating away On the thin ice of the new day
You'll hear me calling in your sweet dream Can't hear your daddy's warning cry You're going back to be all the things you want to be While in sweet dreams you softly sigh
You hear my voice is calling To be mine again Live the rest of your life in a day
Get out and get what you can While your mummy's at home a-sleeping No time to understand 'Cause they lost what they thought they were keeping
No one can see us in your sweet dream Don't hear you leave to start the car All wrapped up tightly in the coat you borrowed from me, Your place of resting is not far
You hear my voice is calling To be mine again Live the rest of your life in a day
Get out and get what you can While your mummy's at home a-sleeping No time to understand 'Cause they lost what they thought they were keeping
Get out and get what you can While your mummy's at home a-sleeping No time to understand 'Cause they lost what they thought they were keeping
Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust An October's day, towards evening Sweat embossed veins standing proud to the plough Salt on a deep chest seasoning Last of the line at an honest day's toil Turning the deep sod under Flint at the fetlock, chasing the bone Flies at the nostrils plunder.
The Suffolk, the Clydesdale, the Percheron vie with the Shire on his feathers floating Hauling soft timber into the dusk to bed on a warm straw coating.
Heavy Horses, move the land under me Behind the plough gliding --- slipping and sliding free Now you're down to the few And there's no work to do The tractor's on its way.
Let me find you a filly for your proud stallion seed to keep the old line going. And we'll stand you abreast at the back of the wood behind the young trees growing To hide you from eyes that mock at your girth, and your eighteen hands at the shoulder And one day when the oil barons have all dripped dry and the nights are seen to draw colder They'll beg for your strength, your gentle power your noble grace and your bearing And you'll strain once again to the sound of the gulls in the wake of the deep plough, sharing.
Standing like tanks on the brow of the hill Up into the cold wind facing In stiff battle harness, chained to the world Against the low sun racing Bring me a wheel of oaken wood A rein of polished leather A Heavy Horse and a tumbling sky Brewing heavy weather.
Bring a song for the evening Clean brass to flash the dawn across these acres glistening like dew on a carpet lawn In these dark towns folk lie sleeping as the heavy horses thunder by to wake the dying city with the living horseman's cry At once the old hands quicken --- bring pick and wisp and curry comb --- thrill to the sound of all the heavy horses coming home.
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 We'll wait in stone circles 'til the force comes through --- lines joint 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.
Tomorrow is the one day I would change for a Monday with freezing rains melting and no trains running and sad eyes passing in windows flimsy and my seat rocking from legs not quite matching Got passport, credit cards, a plane that I'm catching Black Sunday falls one day too soon
The taxi that takes me will be moving too quickly My suitcases simply too full for the closing of pants, shirts and kisses all packed in a hurry Two best-selling paper backs chosen at random --- no sign of sales-persons to whom I might hand them Black Sunday falls one day too soon
And down at the airport are probably waiting a few thousand passengers, overbooked seating Time long suspended in transit-lounge traumas --- connections broken and Special Branch waiting conspicuously standing in holiday clothing Black Sunday falls one day too soon
Pick up my feet and kick off my lethargy Down to the gate with the old mood upon me Get out and chase the small immortality born in the minute of my next returning Impatient feet tapping and cigarette burning Homecoming one day too soon
And back at the house there's a grey sky a-tumbling Milk bottles piling on door steps a-crumbling Curtains all drawn and cold water plumbing Notepaper scribbles I read unbelieving Saying how sorry, how sad was the leaving ...one day too soon
We saw the heavens break and all the world go down to sleep and rocks on mossy banks drip acid rain from craggy steeps Saw fiery angels kiss the dawn Wish you goodbye till further on Will you still be there further on?
And troubled dynasties, like legions lost, have blown away Hounds hard upon their heels call to their quarry --- wait and play Before the last faint light has gone Wish you goodbye till further on Will you still be there further on?
The angry waves grow high --- cut icy teeth on northern shores Brave fires that flicker, cough --- give way to winds through broken doors And with the last line almost drawn --- wish you goodbye till further on Will you still be there further on?
See black, see yellow with little notebooks drawn See grey stripes bowling down the street Silver streaks and T-shirts so precisely torn Strange foreign chaps in white bed-sheets --- Uniforms
See golden halo'd men of high renown prance to the politicians' beat Well tailored in unswerving elegance with shoes by Gucci on their feet --- Uniforms
How do you know who the hell you are? Wake up each day under a different star Dressed to the nines, meet yourself going home like a clone, smartly dressed in your pressed uniform
White battle dress on green pitch, proud eleven Beneath the swelling box so neat the teeming millions of the future fly --- the spinning cricket ball to cheat They're all uniform
They said protect and you'll survive --- (But our postman didn't call) 8lbs. of over-pressure wave seemed to glue him to the wall They said protect and you'll survive
E.M.P. took out the radio --- (And our milk-man didn't call) Flash blinded by the pretty lights, Didn't see his bottles fall Or feel the warm black rain arrive
Big friendly cloud builds in the West (And our dust-men haven't called) They left the dual carriageway at a hundred miles an hour --- A tail wind chasing them away
And in deep shelters lurk below, sub-regional control Who sympathise but cannot help To mend your body or your soul Self-appointed guadians of the race with egg upon their face When steady sirens sing all-clear they pop up, Find nobody here
And so I watch two new suns spin --- (Our paper man doesn't call) Burnt shadow printed on the road --- now there's nothing there at all They said protect and you'll survive
Tomorrow is the one day I would change for a Monday with freezing rains melting and no trains running and sad eyes passing in windows flimsy and my seat rocking from legs not quite matching Got passport, credit cards, a plane that I'm catching Black Sunday falls one day too soon
The taxi that takes me will be moving too quickly My suitcases simply too full for the closing of pants, shirts and kisses all packed in a hurry Two best-selling paper backs chosen at random --- no sign of sales-persons to whom I might hand them Black Sunday falls one day too soon
And down at the airport are probably waiting a few thousand passengers, overbooked seating Time long suspended in transit-lounge traumas --- connections broken and Special Branch waiting conspicuously standing in holiday clothing Black Sunday falls one day too soon
Pick up my feet and kick off my lethargy Down to the gate with the old mood upon me Get out and chase the small immortality born in the minute of my next returning Impatient feet tapping and cigarette burning Homecoming one day too soon
And back at the house there's a grey sky a-tumbling Milk bottles piling on door steps a-crumbling Curtains all drawn and cold water plumbing Notepaper scribbles I read unbelieving Saying how sorry, how sad was the leaving ...one day too soon
When I was a young man (as all good tales begin) I was taught to hold out my hand And for my pay I worked an honest day And took what pittance I could win Now I'm a working john and I'm a working joe And I'm doing what I know For God and the economy Big brother watches over me And the state protects and feeds me And my conscience never leaves me And I'm loyal to the unions Who protect me at all levels
And as I grew, the winds of fortune blew And the bank smiled down upon me And mortgaged to the hilt I threw The breeze of caution behind me Now I'm a working john and I'm a working joe
And I'm good at what I know And God and the economy Have blessed me with equality Now I'm equal to the best of you And better than the rest of you Who would criticise my success In times of national unrest
Now I own my horseless carriage In it's central-heated garage And I commute eighty miles a day --- Up at seven to make it pay I direct ten limited companies With seeming consummate expertise Two ulcers and a heart disease A trembling feeling in both knees --- I'm a working john and I'm a working joe
