| He stands at the crossroads of New St. and Old Town
|
| Gerald Something from good-home-on-sea
|
| Thinking back to the child that he once was
|
| All bread and butter and jam for his tea
|
| Men came and went in his moments of madness
|
| Muttered apologies, late for a meeting
|
| Too much intensity too much feigned sadness
|
| Crestfallen, hangdog, glances too fleeting
|
| He was your golden boy, he’s adrift and dumfounded
|
| With nowhere to go, no appointments to keep
|
| He’s our little man, he’s adrift and dumfounded
|
| Head on hard pillow, waiting for sleep
|
| Broken societies, selfish, uncaring
|
| Addled brains clutching at chemicals soothing
|
| Desperate measures, desperately tearing
|
| At last vestige of dignity, his for the losing
|
| He was your golden boy, he’s adrift and dumfounded
|
| With nowhere to go, no appointments to keep
|
| He’s our little man, he’s adrift and dumfounded
|
| Head on hard pillow, waiting for sleep |