Lyrics The Ice-Breaker Baikal - Richard Dawson

The Ice-Breaker Baikal

My name is Sylvester Herbert, I live on Bird’s Nest Road
To my darling Rebecca, the end of spring I was betrothed
We grew up together on Flodden Street, though as children we were sworn enemies
I work at Armstrong & Mitchell’s, I am a welder there
And in between our toiling, in every moment spare
We’re trying for a baby of our own
The house isn’t much to look at yet, though we’ll get there soon enough
Every time there’s a heavy storm, the rain comes bruising through the roof
Splashing in my chamber pot, it sounds like a distant hammer
We’ve carpet with purple flowers in almost every room
As bald as my own father’s head, still better than bare floorboards
When there comes a little one, we’ll buy some nice rugs
I gently pat with a teaspoon, the crown of a soft boiled egg
And flick upon flick I peel away the crackled shell
I take my coffee strong and black in a cup the size of coal scuttle
A handful of green beans, gooseberries and tomatoes
The pickled trotters from a pig and a brick of bread all wrapped up in
Two little parcels of brown paper tied with bright red string
This morning as I walked down to work, I am in a world of my own
I bump into a lamp-post, and fall arse over tit
The only one who sees it is a three-legged cat sunbathing on a hot flagstone
I tickle him on the belly and swear him not to tell
He meows «Stop this silliness, Syl» and shooing me away
The sunlight dancing in his eyes reminds me of confetti
For the last three years and a little bit more, at a cost of five young men
We’ve been building a very special ship, before not seen the likes of which
The Ice-Breaker Baikal, five thousand tonnes of sweat and blood
And now she’s being dismantled, a giant jigsaw puzzle
Heading to St. Petersburg, then on to Listvenichnaya
Where she’ll be reassembled by the banks of the lake which bears her name
But things are never quiet, there’s always much to be done
And the workshop on a day like this, is hotter than the fucking sun
I spend the morning dreaming of a pint with an everlasting creamy head
And beads of evaporation slowly trickling down the glass
I let it sit there for a while, I’ve got to make this moment last
And when the daydream flows across my lips this endless thirst shall pass
The sky is baring its knuckles, my eyes are aching sore
You’re best to keep them squinted tight, and let the flowers of frost there grow
Impossible to tell, where the heavens end and the world begins
The wind is an ancient bell, fair ringing in our ears
Stinging our cheekbones and trying everything thing it knows
To find a way to sneak inside the folds of our coats
The bough smashing through the ice sounds like a mountain breathing
Heaving up and crashing down, across the frozen field we plough
Leaving in our wake, a thread of shimmering darkness
Churning up bright slabs, the size of great dinner plates
The size of our front door, tossed about with easy grace
A monolithic fountain pen descending down a page
We come upon an island, a wondrous sight to see
That out here in the middle of nowhere, such a splendid thing could be
And though the locals wear their face tight, in a mask of weather and time
They welcome us into the world with a stew of boiled goat
And a jig played on a horse head fiddle, commencing a great downpour
Of whisky made from fermented milk which goes in our stomachs like hot coals
Walking naked in the dark, to the lake within the lake
Singing a song of snow, crunching in between my toes
Arriving at the shore we find there floating a raft of human bones
Lashed soundly together, with kudzu vines dyed by starlight
And pushing off I drape my hand, like a curtain through the water
To find the outstretched fingertips of my unborn daughter