| When they came from the road
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| I had no strength to carry on
|
| And the one’s that had come with me
|
| Were vansihed and gone
|
| Run away, run away, high on desert plains
|
| Four and twenty days out on the trail
|
| I slipped out of the headlights and I kept out of sight
|
| I slept in the dunes and I walked through the night
|
| I was picked up by a 4×4 and then a flatbed truck
|
| It was a very welcome stroke of luck
|
| I went to sleep inside a warehouse
|
| There were many more like me
|
| Laying low and working any odd job
|
| Saving money for the trip across the sea
|
| There’s a place where the dunes block
|
| The view from the road
|
| And where no prying eye see the ferryman load
|
| His ancient motor boad, his brimming cargo hold
|
| We packed together there young and old
|
| There were no lights from the coastline
|
| When the old boat sprang a leak
|
| People clinging to the parapets
|
| As I jumped into the blackness of the sea
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| When they pulled us from the ocean
|
| There was not a sound but for a woman crying
|
| We were sat out on the freezing deck
|
| Where some of were rolling up and dying
|
| Rome, home to the undying
|
| Where the warm wind weeps
|
| See the young man in the station
|
| As he rocks himself to sleep |