|
S. Colvin |
|
Jane it sure looks like rain |
|
These Canadian plains |
|
And their windblown hair |
|
Jane the bruise colored clouds |
|
The smell of the ground |
|
In the ripening air |
|
I have seen you |
|
In your fluttering dress |
|
And your dry face of steel |
|
As you're dragging your red rowing boat |
|
Cross the forever fields |
|
See Jane something's gone dead |
|
Inside my head |
|
There's nothing but fear |
|
Jane the rivers of grief |
|
The tears of relief |
|
Seem ages from here |
|
Sometimes the beauty of life |
|
Hits like lightening washing everything |
|
clear |
|
And these dimmers of doubt flicker |
|
Fade out and disappear |
|
But Jane that is a luxury |
|
There are those of little faith it seems |
|
And they beg for truth like charity |
|
And I see them on every street corner |
|
They are holding out one righteous hand |
|
While the other leads the marching band |
|
In the shadow hymn of the scratchman |
|
Heed the message, kill the messenger |
|
Jane I heard you found love |
|
Wriggling up from the mud |
|
On the shores of Granville |
|
But Jane in the wink of an eye |
|
The naysayers fly |
|
Like hounds at your heels |
|
Jane they'll whisper your name |
|
And you won't feel the chains |
|
And you won't see the moss |
|
Oh, Jane there's an art to the game |
|
The aesthetics of love |
|
The athletics of loss |
|
Sometimes someone drifts by |
|
And our nets get entwined in the sea |
|
And in time I might find |
|
They still mean something to me |
|
But Jane that is a luxury |
|
There are those of little faith in me |
|
And they pull me down like gravity |
|
And I see them on every street corner |
|
They are masters in the sleight of hand |
|
They are dancers and they step so grand |
|
To the shibboleth of Shadowland |
|
Heed the message, kill the messenger |
