Well the consequential dawn
Sadly fell against the door
I remember seldom nights with you
But that was all before
Unknown to my poor self
You knocked against my shell
With intent to wake a sleeping soul
But no such soul awoke
Just echoes through the smoke
And when migrant cuckoo's dive
From the laughter of the sky
It is hard to make them fly again
It is hard to make them fly
And when winter threw it's shoes
Into the corner of my room
I looked back through the mutoscope
And I thought that I saw you
But you were distant and dilute
So I turned my face away
Into the shivering afternoon
supported by 4 fans who also own “Saints Be Praised For The Nuclear Winter”
We should all be making pilgrimages to Scarborough to conduct candle light vigils to 4 track ghosts, failed bands and the bones of the odd Bronte or two. Like Britpop never happened, thank God. Did William Blake go to the seaside to take the waters? I don't know, but if he did he was writing these songs. Vital pop dust and hidden shoe box tape operas. AB
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