| Across the city there’s a golden chill
|
| A rare holding still
|
| As if somebody’s gonna sing
|
| A dip in tempo for the castanet shoes
|
| No blues and twos
|
| As if somebody’s gonna sing
|
| And in the moment hanging on to you
|
| We’re a bundle of clothes and shoes
|
| Whatever we could find
|
| You are the reason for this missing beat
|
| On the streets that I love
|
| And in me
|
| Now I’m here at your side
|
| We try to rhyme our stride
|
| And head for supplies
|
| Way down inside me was a pilot light
|
| That good friends tended and fed with tiny kindnesses
|
| And there was comfort in a stranger’s bed from time to time
|
| It has to be said it just reminded us
|
| The brief ignition of a hopeful flame but there and then gone
|
| It wasn’t the same and then a rostrum struck
|
| The way you read me like you wrote this book
|
| And chapters along it’s still in your eyes
|
| Now I’m here at your side
|
| As though
|
| The street
|
| That meets our feet might know
|
| We try to rhyme our stride
|
| And head for supplies
|
| Across the city there’s a golden chill
|
| A rare holding still
|
| As if somebody’s gonna sing
|
| A dip in tempo for the castanet shoes
|
| No blues and twos
|
| As if somebody’s gonna sing
|
| We glide
|
| We spin
|
| You end and I begin
|
| I made this mess for you
|
| To sift through for all time
|
| You’re glowing from within
|
| Beneath an autumn sky
|
| We find our rhyming stride
|
| And head for supplies |