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There was a boy who came into this world |
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At the hands of a holy woman in a holy place |
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He wore a red coat and walked a bulldog |
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Saw them reflected in the mirror of the lakes |
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Lived in the shadow of the mountains |
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With the smells of disinfectant |
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Dusty old leather and the polished wood of his bed |
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No more than a baby feeding swans on the river |
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Holding the hands of his mother |
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And the wax paper bag of yesterday's bread |
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And his father on the other side of the world |
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On the ship's railings and some far away tide |
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With the silent dry tear of home thoughts from abroad |
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In his far away eyes, in his far away eyes |
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The smell of the wax on the wooden floor |
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Mixture of polish and soap |
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No children to fear or to play with |
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Rows of empty hooks for the coats |
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An upright piano and the boys in the choir |
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Still remind him of just before he was born |
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Remind him of just before he was breathing |
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Strange misty visions of God |
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Turn the cities into families, into villages of souls |
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Hovering in the air while they're sleeping |
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With their houses invisible |
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Send to me the ghosts of Christmas |
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Whispering, "You're the only one" |
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And ever since I was a boy |
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I never felt that I belonged |
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Like everything they did to me |
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Was an experiment to see |
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How I would cope with the illusion? |
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In which direction would I jump |
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Would I do it all the same |
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As the actors in the game? |
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Or would I spit it back at them |
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And not get caught up in their rules? |
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And live according to my own |
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And not be used, not be used |
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To find the fundamental truths |
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It was going to take some time |
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Thirty five summers down the line |
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The wisdom of each passing year |
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Seems to serve only to confuse |
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Seems to serve only to confuse |
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Daddy came out the navy and took us |
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Away to his dirty gray hometown |
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And he worked down on a coal mine for National Service |
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So that he could be around |
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There was a magical purple in the chrome |
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Of the exhaust of his Triumph motorbike |
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And a warmth of oil and metal and the thrill |
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Of the hard corner holding tight |
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From the horizon came home from the navy to the mine |
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From the horizon to buried alive |
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Took his dream underground |
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Buried his treasure in his faraway eyes |
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And one day as the boy lay sleeping |
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In the sunshine of a half remembered afternoon |
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A cloud of bees with no particular aim and no brain |
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Found the boy, decided that his time had come |
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Came down out of the sky, stung him in the face |
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Again and again, blue pain, screaming like baptism |
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Intravenous Jesus like being chosen |
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Something with no brain, blue pain |
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It's happening again, it's happening again |
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Oh, Mummy, Daddy, will you sit a while with me? |
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Oh Mummy, Daddy, will you jog my memory? |
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Tell me tall tales of Montego Bay, table mountain |
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Flying fish, banana spiders, pots of paint |
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And the sun on the equator |
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Setting like an ember thrown to deep water |
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From crimson to black |
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But coming back tomorrow on the horizon |
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The blue pain fades to a point |
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Where it doesn't fade, it stayed blue |
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And stirred his red coat heart to this strange engine |
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This love, this love |
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This love, this inconvenient |
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Blind, blood-diamond, this puzzle |
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This love, this blind, blood-diamond |
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This puzzle I don't understand |
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That knows no faith and tries |
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And fails and tries again |
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Stares at the sea |
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The night's dark deep |
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For one last time and bleeds |
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And bleeds and dies for you |
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And lies and is to blame |
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And is ashamed |
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And is not the same |
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And is true, is true |
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Is true, is true and lies |
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[Incomprehensible] Is true |
