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Hine-MacIver |
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And it's a hard time to find a place |
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Just to sit down a while and cry; |
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And it's a cold town, smiling disgrace, |
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Won't let a man alone to die, |
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'cause a low voice gratin' gravel pittin' |
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Come along and take you by surprise... |
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Move along, you gotta git down on |
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your way, |
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Move along, you gotta git down on |
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your way. |
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Pickin' grass, looking for an omen, |
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For a while I though I'd maybe settle |
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down; |
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Got a heap of logs and a belly full of |
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hunger |
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And a yearnin' jus' to build me a home. |
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With a cold face, stalkin' through a |
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nightmare |
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Comes an echo of a place that I've |
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bin before... |
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Move along, you gotta git down on |
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your way, |
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Move along, you gotta git down on |
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your way. |
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Well, time after time I can sit here |
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waiting |
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For the level to do something in the bay; |
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And day over night see my cold foot |
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shuffle |
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Outta sand shoes slipping away. |
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Come a stiff hair bristle like a poker |
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Pokin' fingers into something he ain't |
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poked before... |
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Move along, you gotta git down on |
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your way, |
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Move along, you gotta git down on |
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your way. |
