| The wind was whipping shingle through the windows in the town
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| A hail of stones across the roof, the slates came raining down
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| A blade of light upon the spit came sweeping through the roar
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| With me head inise a barrel and me leg screwed in the floor
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| Mother pack me bags because I’m off to foreign parts
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| Don’t ask me where I’m going 'cause I’m sure it’s off the charts
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| I’ll pin your likeness on the wall right buy my sleeping head
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| I’ll send you cards and letters so you’ll know that I’m not dead
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| By this time in a week I should be far away from home
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| Trailing fingers through the phospor or asleep in flowers of foam
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| From Macao to Acapulco from Havana to Seville
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| We’ll see monoliths and bridges and the Christ up on the hill
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| An aria with the Russians at the piano in the bar
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| With icefloes through the window we raised glasses to the Czar
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| We squared off on a dockside with a coupled hundred Finns
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| And we dallied in the 'dilly and we stoaked ourselves in gin
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| Now the only deck I’d want to walk
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| Are the stalks of corn beneath my feet
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| And the only sea I want to sail
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| Is the darkned pond in the scented dusk
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| Where a kid crouced full of sadness
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| Lets his boat go drifting out
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| Into the evening sun
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| We sailed through constellations and were rutted by the storm
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| I crumpled under cudgel blows and finally came ashore
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| I spent the next two years or more just staring at the wall
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| We went to sea to see the world and what d’you think we saw?
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| If we turned the table upside down and sailed around the bed
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| Clamped knives between our teeth and tied bandannas round our heads
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| With the wainscot our horizon and the ceiling as the sky
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| You’d not expect that anyone would go and fucking die
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| At nights we passed the bottle round and drank to our lost friends
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| We lay alone upon our bunks and prayed that this would end
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| A wall of moving shadows with rows of swinging keys
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| We dreamed that whole Leviathans lay rotting in the weeds
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| There’s a sound that comes from miles away if you lean your head to hear
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| A ship’s bell rings on board a wreck where the air is still and clear
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| And up in heaven that means another angel’s got his wings
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| But all below it signifies is a ship’s gone in the drink |