Waiting for a ride

Spent Christmas in hiding and New Year on the run;

watched coldly as a city hit a fever-pitch of fun.

My picture in the papers they must have got from her:

When she had to choose she put me on the news –

so I keep singing


the song of a man who can´t see the end                          

to a long, long journey he fails to comprehend.                 

No lover's face, no warm embrace,

no holy vows belong

in the song of a man         

with nothing but his song.

         


I tried making changes, tried nailing down my life

beside the only woman I have longed for as my wife.

She cared for her possessions and her high-flying friends –

I'd nothing to show but debts that I owe,

so I keep singing

                 

the song of a man of no fixed address,

where I'll be tomorrow is anybody's guess.                 

No real estate, no garden gate,

no dinner suits belong

in the song of a man

with nothing but his song.

          

      It's easy from a distance to see she played a game                                                      

     toying with an animal who wasn't city-tame                                                               

     But when she drank they all came out, her words of ridicule                                            

     I'd been her entertainment –I'd been a loving fool.


Of all strange romances there's one that's never done:

The woman who loves money with a partner who has none.

I saw her love was cooling and tried to keep it warm

by stealing all I could from the great and the good –

now I keep singing


the song of a man who is waiting for a ride

with a train or a truck, with the wind or the tide.

No pension schemes, suburban dreams

or credit cards belong

in the song of a man

with nothing but his song