| I walk by the water and
|
| Head for your house
|
| Though I know that you’ll be out
|
| In some dirty city bar
|
| I stand on your street
|
| And I stare at your room
|
| And the shadows play and move
|
| And your brother comes out with a bat
|
| Saying that
|
| You might be with your sister in Paris
|
| On the Rue Turnau
|
| Wearing Marline Dietrich glasses
|
| Where we made that bet
|
| That bet I knew you’d win for sure
|
| When you where sick on the floor
|
| The calico’s ripped
|
| Beneath the patch
|
| It’s an itch I can never scratch
|
| Now it’s so far gone in the past
|
| The fines I’m
|
| Having trouble to contest
|
| With the library book you kept
|
| The one that sent your head so far west
|
| Far, far away
|
| In those continental cities
|
| Where they get in a race
|
| To see who can build the tallest buildings
|
| Where you went for some space
|
| And wound up
|
| With a slightly redder face
|
| And a pain in your gut
|
| I turn on the TV
|
| And I see there your face
|
| And in it is not one trace
|
| Of that old brown bowl of lace
|
| And that bowl of lace
|
| Is sat beside the gas bar fire
|
| Where you probably laid
|
| Eating ice cream chocolate lollies
|
| That your mother brought home
|
| From the freezer store
|
| On the Old Kent Road
|
| She too had enough
|
| And that look on your face
|
| That you’d throw across the dinner table
|
| In the middle of grace
|
| Your fathers eyes closed shut tight
|
| And it happened like that
|
| Every damn night
|
| That I had to come
|
| To your house
|
| Well, tell Charles O’Keefe
|
| That I don’t want to go to Paris
|
| It’s sunnier here
|
| And I’m happy in this loveless marriage
|
| With the girl from the Pru
|
| And your father and your sister
|
| And your mother too
|
| And not forgetting you |