| Bow and arrow, no wind
|
| High up in the dawn light
|
| Where everything begins
|
| No direction, but a steady drum
|
| Over the treetops, put my knuckle
|
| On the sun
|
| Oh Mama, I cannot say
|
| That I’m not affected
|
| By your orange blossom ways
|
| Took aim, spoke low
|
| Backed up to the West
|
| And let that little arrow go
|
| Valhallas want to name you
|
| Old relations in the valley
|
| Want to claim you
|
| There’s no pill that can satisfy
|
| Your need to work and my need
|
| Not to deny
|
| I can moan like a dog
|
| And kick like a mule
|
| Say I’ve been sleeping well
|
| That wouldn’t be true
|
| And I’m hooked like a fish
|
| On a telephone line
|
| Rounders and powders
|
| And fine Spanish wine
|
| Oh Darling, I’m still awake
|
| There are shadows on the wall
|
| Where the dawn wants to break
|
| This old mattress where we used to lie
|
| Heaven knows it’s empty
|
| And I’m still on my side
|
| Oh Mama, I cannot say
|
| I am not affected by those
|
| Old fashioned ways
|
| There’s some blood, some bone
|
| Something so sweet about
|
| The air back home
|
| Some name it, some blame it
|
| Some would rather see it go
|
| While others want to claim it
|
| Every jewel that you find
|
| Every glass you drain
|
| And every watch you wind
|
| I can moan like a dog
|
| And kick like a mule
|
| Say I’ve been sleeping well
|
| That wouldn’t be true
|
| And I’m hooked like a fish
|
| On a telephone line
|
| Rounders and powders
|
| And fine Spanish wine
|
| Bow and arrow, no wind
|
| High up in the dawn light
|
| Where everything begins
|
| Took aim, spoke low
|
| Backed up to the West
|
| And let that little arrow go |