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lyrics

Writing poems is a saintly thing / Writing poems is a saintly thing / Beneath the blanket of a November’s wet wind / Day breaks over slated roofs / Seagulls cry and glide over eyes that rove over breakers and spray / Dying embers of a dog end fly by the old tramps rooting round the rubbish bins / Talking to each other in a way only known to other tramps / Remembering the first rays of early morning / Summer sun warming / Our secret and not so secret smiles / Butterfly kisses keeping us occupied / Camping out at midnight and all the midnight aromas of olives and avocados and cheap red wine / Writing poems is a saintly thing / Writing poems is a saintly thing / Old man beaten up trumpet for a band / Mangy old mongrel dancing to his tune / Hearing late-night trains / Through drizzly rains / Sharing cigarettes with strangers as strange as strange days are strange / Summer fades, summer fades on the days, the days / And the killer’s getting away / Quick, you start the car I’ll grab my gun and get my hat and oh, by the way ... / It’s getting colder now / The air is heavy and still as the incoming fog / So take your bus and wave goodbye to this feeling / Reeling on thoughts and reflections of thoughts / And the thoughts of thoughts I’d never even thought I’d even thought I’d thought I’d thought of / Eyes rove over chimneys cracked stacks and track back along the tracks / Back to the old fish market with the bottle top windows all smashed in / In the barrels on the barrows by the broken exit arrows / Emotional reserves are wearing thin / Outside the Saturday afternoon cinema / Yesterday’s fish and chip wrappers in the gutter / All a-flutter, blow and stutter like puppet shadows dancing on the silver screen / As the titles fade on what might have been / And guess what? / What? / You what? / What? / What, what, what? / The killer got away / The killer got away? / Yeah, the killer got away but hey anyway, what’s that you say, what’s that you say? / The kids are back to school again with satchels full of life / Wisdom packed in a lunch box with their troubles and their strife / You hear them in the playground / You hear them jibe and sing / ‘There’s nothing more of the song to sing / Your words don’t hurt your words don’t sting / And ... writing poems is a saintly thing ...’

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from become the sea​.​.​., released August 30, 2019

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BoringProductions Shenzhen, China

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