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It took fourteen hours to hitch from London to Portsmouth |
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I can picture you in your battered old coat |
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Blown by the trucks on the side of the road |
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Cursing the world just until one pulls over |
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The cab is warm, the driver is talking |
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And oh if he had his time over again |
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And you laugh with the man, but you think of another |
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Stealing away around each darkened corner |
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The ghost of your father always, always watching |
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And he waits for you when the black tide comes |
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And you feel the ghost of your father waiting |
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An unbearable stillness hangs over these days |
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Humming with the promises broken |
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The bewildered watch from behind misted-up glass |
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As the ambitious and lucky get to feed on the carcass |
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When you feel so much in such a small space |
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Do you think you can keep on running |
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Like the papers that blow down your empty street |
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Outside in the dark when you cannot sleep |
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The ghost of your father always, always watching |
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And he waits for you when the black tide comes |
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Do you feel the ghost of your father waiting? |