| This huddling in my coat, this gypsy bundle
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| In Liverpool, in squalor cast adrift
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| A dirty ragged mess of desperation
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| Though devil-touched I took as God’s gift
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| No history, no owner, no rhyme, no reason
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| Nor explanation of his sorry state
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| And yet with all the fire of the survivor
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| I couldn’t leave it
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| I couldn’t leave it to it’s fate
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| What are we to do with it?
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| Dirty, ragged, coloured breed
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| Welcome it with open arms?
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| Welcome one more mouth to feed?
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| Could your own blood not provide you
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| With the gratitude you need?
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| We will call the boy Heathcliff!
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| And every man on earth conceals a secret
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| On which he feeds and yet tears him apart
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| And in this child so great that complication
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| Will surely destroy the strongest heart
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| And as you fall into the traps he sets you
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| And as you’re drawn to cross his reckless line
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| And as I watch you peer into his darkness
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| I pray you’ll never search
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| I pray you’ll never search for mine
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| What are we to do with it?
|
| Dirty, ragged, coloured breed
|
| Welcome it with open arms?
|
| Welcome one more mouth to feed?
|
| Could your own blood not provide you
|
| With the gratitude you need?
|
| We will call the boy Heathcliff! |