| Savage night on a misty island. |
| Lights wink out on the canyon walls.
|
| Two old boys in a stolen racer. |
| Black rubber contrails in The unwashed halls.
|
| And all roads out of here, seem to lead right back to the
|
| Rock Island.
|
| I’ve gone back to Paris, London, and even riding on a Jumbo to Bombay.
|
| The long haul back holds faint attraction, but the people
|
| Here know they’re O.K.
|
| See the girl following the red balloon: walking all alone
|
| On her Rock Island.
|
| Doesn’t everyone have their own Rock Island? |
| Their own little
|
| Patch of sand?
|
| Where the slow waves crawl and your angels fall and you find
|
| You can hardly stand.
|
| And just as you’re drowning, well, the tide goes down.
|
| And you’re back on your Rock Island.
|
| Hey there girlie with the torn dress, shaking: who was it Toughed you? |
| Who was it ruined your day?
|
| Whose footprint calling card? |
| And what they want, stepping
|
| On your beach anyway?
|
| I’ll be your life raft out of here, but you’d only drift right
|
| Back to your Rock Island.
|
| Hey, boy with the personal stereo: nothing 'tween the ears
|
| But that hard rock sound.
|
| Playing to your empty room, empty guitar tune, No use waiting
|
| For that C.B.S. |
| to come around.
|
| 'Cos all roads out of here, seem to lead right back to the
|
| Rock Island. |