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It was seven in the morning when the spark |
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began to give. the bath was spilling over, my |
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self pity spilling with it, so i, i fled the country |
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to start it all again and found myself in paris in |
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the cemetery rain. |
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dear anne came to me and took me by the arm |
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showed me old disasters embedded in the palm |
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warned me of a lady with the sun behind her head. |
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with a a granite neck, a singer who can never sing |
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again. but you, my love: |
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|
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you must come, come to joy, turn your head to the sun |
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its down to you, you can shine, you can shake all the |
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sorrow from your palm.. its down to you if you dare |
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to come to joy. |
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|
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what was it i ran from, what burnt away inside? |
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four hundred schoolboys and a lawyer at my side |
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always running with these legs going nowhere |
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a ghost in the system, and angel on the stairs... |
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but oh! this time.... |
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i shall turn, turn my head to the sun.. |
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they are marching out of me.. one by one |
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walking free. oh! theyre going out of.... |
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oh! i can feel it moving, this time i'm really moving. |
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are you ready to come, come to joy well its really down to |
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you if you dare to enjoy... its down to you... hold the key |
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in your hands.. it's all in the palm of your hands. |
