| I’m on a B road heading for the sea
|
| To see if hands across the ocean
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| Shake or wave
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| Through the whiplash of the windscreen wipers
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| I can see for miles
|
| But all I do is watch the time
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| And the driver’s hands
|
| He harbours thoughts on personal grief
|
| I said your hardship’s
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| Only one of a fleet
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| That didn’t go down well
|
| Listen son if you’d spent
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| Your life in the last lane
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| You would have an accent to grind
|
| Punch-drunk on patriotism
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| Blind-drunk on borderism
|
| Maybe I should drive
|
| And while you’re castaway
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| The mice’ll play
|
| They’ll have a license
|
| To dull those left back home
|
| What about those poor souls?
|
| And as I jumped to these conclusions
|
| He thumped his feet on the brakes
|
| But we still hit a songwriter
|
| Trudging through the rain
|
| Scrambled out and watched him
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| Rest in pieces
|
| Said a prayer and rifled
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| Through his pockets
|
| But the side of his mouth
|
| Still had something to say
|
| At the toss of a coin
|
| I end up head in the dirt
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| And tail in the air
|
| Yet you can dance away
|
| But be it friend of hard-up-man
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| Fellow or kin
|
| When the chips are down
|
| They’re down for good |