| Autumn is warm
|
| These are my golden years
|
| Roll on a casino of shadows at the Ocean del Sol
|
| Fortune is long
|
| But these are the older years
|
| When the waterfall spider sparkles and turns like a clock in the dark
|
| Far from the spring
|
| Sit in a barber’s chair
|
| Still bringing glamour to towns where the hammer must fall
|
| Feminine man
|
| Tall in the evening air
|
| With the Zulu who walks with you always by your side
|
| And the pain goes
|
| And explain those
|
| Spiders are building their webs across skulls' eyes in the dark
|
| Far from springtime
|
| In a barber’s chair
|
| Time to pull on the face that you keep in a jar by the door
|
| Galloping ghosts
|
| Take me to Zanzibar
|
| Forward and forward the chargers they’re charging in dreams at least
|
| Rallying round
|
| The faces of every old ghost
|
| In a postage stamp world we slipper away with a cradle of cats
|
| In a postage stamp world
|
| There is nothing yet left to believe in
|
| For a fox-hunting man who has sold all his clothes to the slave trade
|
| You are lovely in face
|
| Love me in body and everything
|
| You’ve got laughter and brains and I love you so much in your hat
|
| And the pain goes
|
| Further and further and deeper and deeper inside
|
| And the time goes so slow in the winter time rolling in straw and hay
|
| For a fox-hunting man
|
| Who can stand in the fire and just fade away
|
| You are lovely of face, you are lovely of body and soul
|
| Galloping ghosts
|
| Take me to Zanzibar
|
| Forward and forward the chargers they’re charging in dreams at least
|
| Rallying round
|
| The faces of every old ghost
|
| In a postage stamp world we slipper away with a cradle of cats |