He lived a boy's life He loved his "Camp Mohawk" on Viele`s Creek And he loved to work on problems, drifting in his canoe Lightning days He hated formalities
Came to London to find myself but in ten million people Where do you start? Drunk at a party You asked me if I was someone else and I say "Yeah, if it
The season is long and i've got the chills The city steps back, replaced by the hills There's snow on my heart and snow on my pills The season is long
(Instrumental)
When I'm done, this night will fear me Ghosts of ghosts of ghosts will hear me Black just got blacker Attacked became attacker When I'm done, this night
There are more people alive now than have ever lived I read that somewhere and instantly thought it impossible but if it were to be true I wonder that
I was a postal worker from May until July I left because of allergies - the letters made me cry 8am on Fridays, 6am the rest Postal for the two months
In travel, there are traps When I'm writing in the back Beneath the rain, between the maps My diary bears this out but memory has it wrong I loved you
We sail on the bad tide We sail on the bad sea From your heart to my heart with sails cut from mercy From your heart to my heart From Summer to Spring
You and John are birds You and John are ghosts You and John are genies, guarding my coast And in my address book, you're depicted as birds Drawn in, no
I have thought about you in your Summer abode In your lunatic smock, in chronicle mode The typewriter smack as you nail in the words and the turntable
Breaking Winter up by shooting numbers from the clock The cat sleeps on the atlas in Alsace Lorraine, dreaming long grass and birds on the wire I have
It's the same dream that lasts all night but I can only keep this It's Halloween and I'm chasing you round the other kids On a moonlit lawn in a skull
On the forecourts of French libraries from Reignac to Marseilles the rain rattles small cars, clouds drape over backseats I am a photograph in your satchel