| I’m a pale intruder on an unknown beach
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| My back to the water, my feet in the sand
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| Finding no recognition
|
| As each sign of life
|
| Invades the precision of this aging land
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| An abandoned flipper in a world of storms
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| There’s a man on the shoreline
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| With a white parakeet
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| Trying to make his bird go home
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| With increasing continuity endless space
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| Gazes 'round the periphery not disheartened
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| Wearing it’s most inexpressible face
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| My instinct is double as the waves roll by
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| But my vision is halved
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| And the foam in the green, as the insects
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| Talk to the blazing sky
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| Wax in the ear, stitch in the side
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| Wolves are feast for the blind
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| Under and over, the why and the wherefore
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| Easy to sit back with time
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| Driving discussions like cranes
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| Through the car park, setting them all in a line
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| All interceding, not yet proceeding
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| Misleading doubts in the mind
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| I’m a pale intruder on an unknown beach
|
| My back to the water, my feet in the sand
|
| Finding no recognition
|
| As each sign of life
|
| Invades the precision of this aging land |