Tull Lyrics 2014

The Jethro Tull & Ian Anderson
Complete Lyrics 1968 2014
Compiled, edited and formatted for online/ereaders

By Steve Jeal,
January 2012 August 2013 April 2014
This Was
Release Date: 25. October 1968 (UK)
Ian Anderson - Flute, mouth organ, claghorn, piano, vocals.
Mick Abrahams - Guitar, 9-string guitar, vocals.
Clive Bunker - Drums, hooter and charm bracelet.
Glenn Cornick Bass.
David Palmer - Brass arrangement and conducting on "Move On Alone"
My Sunday Feeling
Some Day The Sun Won't Shine For You
Beggar's Farm
Move On Alone
Serenade To A Cuckoo (instrumental)
Dharma For One (instrumental)
It's Breaking Me Up
Cat's Squirrel (instrumental)
A Song For Jeffrey
Round (instrumental)
My Sunday Feeling
My Sunday feeling is coming on over me.
My Sunday feeling is coming on over me,
Now that the night is over
got to clear my head so I can see.
Till I get to put together,
that old feeling won't let me be.
Won't somebody tell me where I laid my head last night?

Won't somebody tell me where I laid my head last night?
I really don't remember,
but with one more cigarette and I think I might.
Till I get to put together, well
that old feeling can't get me right.
Need some assistance; have you listened to what I said?

Need some assistance; have you listened to what I said?
Oh, I don't feel so good.
Need someone to help me to my bed.
Till I get to put together,
that old feeling is in my head.
Some Day the Sun Won't Shine for you
In the morning -- gonna get my things together.
Packing up and I'm leaving this place.
I don't believe you'll cry,
there'll be a smile upon your face.
I didn't think how much you'd hurt me.

That's something that I laugh about.
Bring in the good times, baby,
And let the bad times out.
That old sun keeps on shining,

but someday it won't shine for you.
In the morning I'll be leaving.
I'll leave your mother too.
Beggar's Farm
You're taking chances
And your reputation's going down.
Going out in the night-time
You think you make no sound.
But you don't fool me.
'Cos I know what you feel.
If you ignore the things I say
someday soon's gonna find you
'way down on Beggar's Farm.
'way down on Beggar's Farm.
I pay my money for no returns.

I think I need you.
Going to find someone.
Oh, you don't fool me.
'cos I know what you feel.
When you go out I won't ask you why.
And I won't worry when I see you lying
down on Beggar's Farm.
When you run to me, going to turn away.

Won't even listen when you try to say
that you were only fooling around
'Cos I know what you feel.
But if you ask me nicely, woman
I'll wake up early one day soon and
I'll visit you down on Beggar's Farm.
Move On Alone
I feel so sad now that she's gone,
I've been loving that woman too long.
There is no place to go
because my friends have all moved,
Got nothing but sit in the sun.
Got tired of crying,
guess I'll move on alone.
My bed is so empty and my heart is grown cold,

guess I'll just die before I grow old.
The place is untidy,
that's 'cos I ain't done my dirt,
I just grown tired of thinking.
Got tired of crying,
guess I'll move on alone.
It's Breaking Me Up
So many long days. In so many ways.
I try to get through to what lies deep inside of you.
Oh, baby, I said, you're breaking me up, woman.
Yeah, you're breaking me down.
You're lying in little pieces scattered all around.
You're doing your worst to see me get hurt.
But, oh, baby, I said,

you're breaking me up, woman.
You're breaking me down.
My tears have run dry and you wonder why.

I've found a new woman
who don't do the things you can.
Oh, baby, I said,
you're breaking me up, woman.
You're breaking me down.
A Song For Jeffrey
Gonna lose my way tomorrow,
gonna give away my car.
I'd take you along with me,
but you would not go so far.
Don't see what I do not want to see,
you don't hear what I don't say,
Won't be what I don't want to be,
I continue in my way.
Don't see, see, see where I'm goin',

Don't see, see, see where I'm goin' to,
I don't want to.
Everyday I see the mornin' come on in the same old way.

I tell myself tomorrow brings me
things I would not dream today.
Gonna lose my way tomorrow,
gonna give away my car.
I'd take you along with me,
but you would not go so far.
Don't see what I do not want to see,
you don't hear what I don't say,
Won't be what I don't want to be,
I continue in my way.

Don't see, see, see where I'm goin' to,
I don't want to.
Stand Up
Release Date: 01. August 1969 (UK)
Ian Anderson - Flute, acoustic guitar, Hammond organ, piano, mandolin, balalaika,
bouzouki, mouth organ, vocals.
Martin Barre - Electric guitar, flute on "Jeffrey Goes To Leicester Square" and "Reasons For
Waiting"
Clive Bunker - Drums, percussion.
Glenn Cornick Bass.
A New Day Yesterday

Jeffrey Goes To Leicester Square
Boure (instrumental)
Back To The Family
Look Into The Sun
Nothing Is Easy
Fat Man
We Used To Know
Reasons For Waiting
For A Thousand Mothers
A New Day Yesterday
My first and last time with you
and we had some fun.
Went walking through the trees, yeah!
and then I kissed you once.
Oh I want to see you soon
but I wonder how.
It was a new day yesterday
but it's an old day now.
Spent a long time looking

for a game to play.
My luck should be so bad now
to turn out this way.
Oh I had to leave today
just when I thought I'd found you.
It was a new day yesterday
but it's an old day now.
Jeffrey Goes to Leicester Square
Bright city woman
walking down Leicester Square everyday.
Gonna get a piece of my mind.
You think you're not a piece of my kind.
Ev'rywhere the people looking.
Why don't you get up and sing?
Bright city woman

where did you learn all the things you say?
You listen to the newsmen on TV.
You may fool yourself but you don't fool me.
I'll see you in another place, another time.
You may be someone's, but you won't be mine.
Back to the Family
My telephone wakes me in the morning,
have to get up to answer the call.
So I think I'll go back to the family
where no one can ring me at all.
Living this life has its problems
so I think that I'll give it a break.
Oh, I'm going back to the family
'cos I've had about all I can take.
Master's in the counting house

counting all his money.
Sister's sitting by the mirror,
she thinks her hair looks funny.
And here am I thinking to myself
just wond'ring what things to do.
I think I enjoyed all my problems

where I did not get nothing for free.
Oh, I'm going back to the family,
doing nothing is bothering me.
I'll get a train back to the city
that soft life is getting me down.
There's more fun away from the family,
get some action when I pull into town.
Everything I do is wrong,
what the hell was I thinking?
Phone keeps ringing all day long
I got no time for thinking.
And every day has the same old way
of giving me too much to do.
Look Into the Sun
Took a sad song of one sweet evening,
I smiled and quickly turned away.
It's not easy singing sad songs but
still the easiest way I have to say.
So when you look into the sun
and see the things we haven't done
oh was it better then to run
than to spend the summer crying.
Now summer cannot come anyway.
I had waited for time to change her.

The only change that came was over me.
She pretended not to want love,
I hope she was only fooling me.
look for the pleasures nearly won.
Or was it better then to run
than to spend the summer singing.
And summer could have come in a day.
So if you hear my sad song singing

remember who and what you nearly had.
It's not easy singing sad songs when
you can sing the song to make me glad.
and see the words you could have sung:
It's not too late, only begun,
we can still make summer.
Yes, summer always comes anyway.

and see the words you could have sung:
It's not too late, only begun.
Look into the sun.
Nothing is Easy
Nothing is easy.
Though time gets you worrying
my friend, it's o.k.
Just take your life easy and stop
all that hurrying, be happy my way.
When tension starts mounting

and you've lost count
of the pennies you've missed,
just try hard and see why
they're not worrying me,
they're last on my list.
Nothing's easy.
Nothing is easy,
you'll find that the squeeze
won't turn out so bad.
Your fingers may freeze, worse things
happen at sea, there's good times to be had.
So if you're alone and

you're down to the bone,
just give us a play.
You'll smile in a while and discover
that I'll get you happy my way --
nothing's easy.
Fat Man
Don't want to be a fat man,
people would think that I was just good fun.
Would rather be a thin man,
I am so glad to go on being one.
Too much to carry around with you,
no chance of finding a woman who
will love you in the morning
and all the night time too.
Don't want to be a fat man,

have not the patience to ignore all that.
Hate to admit to myself half of my problems
came from being fat.
Won't waste my time feeling sorry for him,
I seen the other side to being thin.
Roll us both down a mountain
and I'm sure the fat man would win.
We Used to Know
Whenever I get to feel this way,
hard to find new words to say,
I think about the bad old days
we used to know.
Nights of winter turn me cold --

fears of dying, getting old.
We ran the race and the race was won
by running slowly.
Could be soon we'll cease to sound,

slowly upstairs, faster down.
Then to revisit stony grounds,
we used to know.
Remembering mornings, shillings spent,

made no sense to leave the bed.
The bad old days they came and went
giving way to fruitful years.
Saving up the birds in hand

while in the bush the others land.
Take what we can before the man
says it's time to go.
Each to his own way I'll go mine.

Best of luck in what you find.
But for your own sake remember times
we used to know.
Reasons for Waiting
What a sight for my eyes to see you in sleep.
Could it stop the sun rise hearing you weep?
You're not seen, you're not heard
but I stand by my word.
Came a thousand miles
just to catch you while you're smiling.
What a day for laughter and walking at night.

Me following after, your hand holding tight.
And the memory stays clear
with the song that you hear.
If I can but make
the words awake the feeling.
What a reason for waiting and dreaming of dreams.

So here's hoping you've faith in impossible schemes,
that are born in the sigh
of the wind blowing by
while the dimming light brings
the end to a night of loving.
For a Thousand Mothers
Did you hear mother
saying I'm wrong but I know I'm right.
Did you hear father?
calling my name into the night.
Saying I'll never be what I am now.
Telling me I'll never find
what I've already found.
It was they who were wrong,
and for them here's a song.
Did you hear baby

come back and tell you the things he's seen.
Did it surprise you
to be picked up at eight in a limousine?
Doing the things he's accustomed to do.
Which at one time it seemed
like a dream now it's true.
And unknowing you made
it all happen this way.
Did you hear mother --

saying I'm wrong but I know I'm right.
Did you hear father?
Calling my name into the night.
Saying I'll never be what I am now.
Telling me I'll never find
what I've already found.
It was they who were wrong
and for them here's a song.
Benefit
Release Date: 01. May 1970 (UK)
Ian Anderson - Flute, acoustic guitar, vocals.
Martin Barre - Electric guitar.
Glenn Cornick Bass.
John Evans - Piano, organ.
With You There To Help Me

Nothing To Say
Inside
And Well And Living In
Son
For Michael Collins, Jeffrey and Me
To Cry You A Song
A Time For Everything
Play In Time
Sossity, You're A Woman
With You There To Help Me
In days of peace
sweet smelling summer nights
of wine and song;
dusty pavements, burning feet.
Why am I crying, I want to know.
How can I smile and make it right?
For sixty days and eighty nights
and not give in and lose the fight.
I'm going back to the ones that I know,

with whom I can be what I want to be.
Just one week for the feeling to go
and with you there to help me
then it probably will.
I won't go down acting the same old play.

Give sixty days for just one night.
Don't think I'd make it, but then I might.
I'm going back to the ones that I know,

with whom I can be what I want to be.
Just one week for the feeling to go --
and with you there to help me
then it probably will.
Nothing to Say
Everyday there's someone asking
what is there to do?
Should I love or should I fight
is it all the same to you?
No I say. I have the answer proven to be true,
But if I were to share it with you,
you would stand to gain and I to lose.
Oh I couldn't bear it
so I've got nothing to say.
Nothing to say.
Every morning pressure forming

all around my eyes.
Ceilings crash, the walls collapse,
broken by the lies
that your misfortune brought upon us
and I won't disguise them.
So don't ask me will I explain.
I won't even begin to tell you why.
No, just because I have a name.
Well I've got nothing to say.
Nothing to say.
Climb a tower of freedom,

paint your own deceiving sign.
It's not my power to criticize
or to ask you to be blind
to your own pressing problem
and the hate you must unwind.
So ask of me no answer
there is none that I could give
you wouldn't find.
I went your way ten years ago
and I've got nothing to say.
Nothing to say.
Inside
All the places I've been
make it hard to begin
to enjoy life again on the inside,
but I mean to.
Take a walk around the block
and be glad that I've got me some time
to be in from the outside,
and inside with you.
I'm sitting on the corner feeling glad.

Got no money coming in but I can't be sad.
That was the best cup of coffee I ever had,
and I won't worry about a thing
because we've got it made,
here on the inside, outside so far away.
And we'll laugh and we'll sing,

get someone to bring our friends here
for tea in the evening.
Old Jeffrey makes three.
Take a walk in the park,

does the wind in the dark
sound like music to you?
Well I'm thinking it does to me.
Can you cook, can you sew?

Well, I don't want to know.
That is not what you need on the inside
to make the time go.
Counting lambs, counting sheep

we will fall into sleep
and we awake to a new day of living
and loving you so.
Alive and Well and Living In
Nobody sees her here,
her eyes are slowly closing.
If she should want some peace,
she sits there, without moving,
and puts a pillow over the phone.
And if she feels like dancing no one will know it.
Giving herself a chance,
there's no need to show her how it should be.
She can't remember now when she was all in pieces.

She's quite content to sit there
listening to what he says.
How he didn't like to be alone.
And if he feels like crying she's there to hear him.
No reason to complain and nothing to fear,
they always will be...
Son
Oh, I feel sympathy.
Be grateful my son for what you get.
Expression and passion.
Ten days for watching the sunset;
when I was your age
amusement we made for ourselves.
"Permission to breathe, sir''
don't talk like that, I'm your old man.
They'll soon be demobbed son,
so join up as soon as you can.
You can't borrow that
'cos that's for the races and
doesn't grow on trees.
I only feel what touches me

and feel in touching I can see
a better state to be in.
Who has the right
to question what I might do,
in feeling I should touch the real
and only things I feel.
It's advice and it's nice to know

when you're best advised.
You've only turned thirty,
so son, you'd better apologize.
And when you grow up, if you're good,
we will buy you a bike.
For Michael Collins, Jeffrey and Me
Watery eyes of the last sighing seconds,
blue reflections mute and dim
beckon tearful child of wonder
to repentance of the sin.
And the blind and lusty lovers
of the great eternal lie
go on believing nothing
since something has to die.
And the ape's curiosity,
money power wins.
And the yellow soft mountains
move under him.
I'm with you L.E.M.

though it's a shame that it had to be you.
The mother ship is just a blip
from your trip made for two.
I'm with you boys,
so please employ just a little extra care.
It's on my mind I'm left behind
when I should have been there, walking with you.
And the limp face hungry viewers

fight to fasten with their eyes
like the man hung from the trapeze
whose fall will satisfy.
And congratulate each other
on their rare and wondrous deed
that their begrudged money bought
to sow the monkey's seed.
And the yellow soft mountains
they grow very still
witness as intrusion the humanoid thrill.
To Cry You a Song
Flying so high, trying to remember
how many cigarettes did I bring along?
When I get down I'll jump in a taxi cab
driving through London town
to cry you a song.
It's been a long time --

still shaking my wings.
Well, I'm a glad bird
I got changes to ring.
Closing my dream inside this paper-bag,

thought I saw angels
but I could have been wrong.
Search in my case,
can't find what they're looking for.
Waving me through to cry you a song.
It's been a long time

still shaking my wings.
Well I'm a glad bird
I got changes to ring.
Lights in the street,

peeping through curtains drawn.
Rattling of safety chain taking too long.
The smile in your eyes was never so sweet before.
Came down from the skies to cry you a song.
A Time for Everything
Once it seemed there would always be
a time for everything.
Ages passed I knew at last
my life had never been.
I'd been missing what time could bring.
Fifty years and I'm filled with tears

and joys I never cried.
Burn the wagon and chain the mule,
The past is all denied.
There's no time for everything.
No time for everything.
Play in Time
Got to take in what I can.
There is no time to do what must be done
while I do some thinking.
Sleeping is hard to come by,
so we'll all sit down and try to play in time.
and we feel like singing.
Talking to people in my way.
Blues were my favorite colour,

til I looked around and found another song
that I felt like singing.
Trying so hard to reach you;
playing what must be played, what must be sung
and it's what I'm singing.
Talking to people in my way.
Sossity: You're a Woman
Hello you strait-laced lady,
dressed in white but your shoes aren't clean.
Painted them up with polish in the hope
we can't see where you've been.
The smiling face that you've worn
to greet me rising at morning --
sent me out to work for my score.
Please me and say what it's for.
Give me the straight-laced promise
and not the pathetic lie.
Tie me down with your ribbons

and sulk when I ask you why.
Your Sunday paper voice cries
demanding truths I deny.
The bitter-sweet kiss you pretended
is offered, our affair mended.
Sossity: You're a woman.

All of the tears you're wasting

are for yourself and not for me.
It's sad to know you're aging,
sadder still to admit I'm free.
Your immature physical toy has grown,
too young to enjoy at last
your straight-laced agreement:
woman, you were too old for me.

Society: You're a woman.
Aqualung
Release Date: 19. March 1971 (UK)
Ian Anderson - Flute, acoustic guitar, electric guitar, vocals.
Martin Barre - Electric guitar, descant recorder.
John Evans - Piano, organ, mellotron.
Jeffrey Hammond-Hammond - Bass, alto recorder, backing vocals.
David Palmer - String arrangement and conducting.
Aqualung
Cross-Eyed Mary
Cheap Day Return
Mother Goose
Wond'ring Aloud
Up To Me
My God
Hymn 43
Slipstream
Locomotive Breath
Wind Up
Wondring Aloud Again (Full Morgan Version from 40th Anniversary edition)
In the Beginning
1 - In the beginning Man created God; and in the image of Man, created he him.
2 - And Man gave unto God a multitude of names, that he might be Lord of all the earth
when it was suited to Man
3 - And on the seven millionth day Man rested and did lean heavily on his God and saw that
it was good.
4 - And Man formed Aqualung of the dust of the ground, and a host of others likened unto
his kind.
5 - And these lesser men were cast into the void; And some were burned, and some were put
apart from their kind.
6 - And Man became the God that he had created and with his miracles did rule over all the
earth.
7 - But as all these things came to pass, the Spirit that did cause man to create his God lived
on within all men: even within Aqualung.
8 - And man saw it not.
9 - But for Christ's sake he'd better start looking.
Aqualung
Sitting on a park bench eyeing up little girls with bad intent.
Snot running down his nose greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes.
Drying in the cold sun, watching as the frilly panties run.
Feeling like a dead duck spitting out pieces of his broken luck.
Sun streaking cold an old man wandering lonely.
Taking time the only way he knows.
Leg hurting bad, as he bends to pick a dog end
goes down to a bog to warm his feet.
Feeling alone the Army's up the rode
salvation a la mode and a cup of tea.
Aqualung my friend don't start away uneasy
you poor old sod you see it's only me.
Do you still remember
December's foggy freeze when the ice that
clings on to your beard is screaming agony.
And you snatch your rattling last breaths
with deep-sea diver sounds,
and the flowers bloom like madness in the spring.
Cross-Eyed Mary
Who would be a poor man a beggerman, a thief if he had a rich man in his hand.
Who would steal the candy from a laughing baby's mouth
if he could take it from the money man.
Cross-eyed Mary goes jumping in again.
She signs no contract but she always plays the game.
Dines in Hampstead village on expense accounted gruel,
and the jack knife barber drops her off at school.
Laughing in the playground gets no kicks from little boys:
would rather make it with a letching gray.
Or maybe her attention is drawn by Aqualung,
who watches through the railings as they play.
Cross-eyed Mary finds it hard to get along.
She's a poor man's rich girl and she'll do it for a song.
She's a rich man's stealer but her favour's good and strong:
She's the Robin Hood of Highgate helps the poor man get along.
Cheap Day Return
On Preston platform do your soft shoe shuffle dance.
Brush away the cigarette ash that's fallen down your pants.
And you sadly wonder does the nurse treat your old man the way she should.
She made you tea: asked for your autograph what a laugh.
Mother Goose
As I did walk by Hampstead fair, I came upon Mother Goose - so I turned her loose she was
screaming. And a foreign student said to me was it really true there are elephants and lions
too in Piccadilly Circus.
Walked down by the bathing pond to try and catch some sun.
Saw at least a hundred schoolgirls sobbing into hankerchiefs as one.
I don't believe they knew I was a schoolboy.
And a bearded lady said to me if you start your raving and your misbehaving you'll be sorry.
Then the chicken-fancier came to play with his long red beard (and his sister's weird: she
drives a lorry).
Laughed down by the putting green I popped 'em in their holes.
Four and twenty labourers were labouring digging up their gold.
I don't believe they knew that I was Long John Silver.
Saw Johnny Scarecrow make his rounds in his jet black mac (which he won't give back).
Stole it from a snow man.
Wond'ring Aloud
Wond'ring aloud how we feel today.
Last night sipped the sunset my hands in her hair.
We are our own saviours as we start both our hearts beating life into each other.
Wond'ring aloud will the years treat us well.
As she floats in the kitchen, I'm tasting the smell of toast as the butter runs.
Then she comes, spilling crumbs on the bed and I shake my head.
And it's only the giving that makes you what you are.
Up To Me
Take you to the cinema and leave you in a Wimpy Bar
you tell me that we've gone to far come running up to me.
Make the scene at Cousin Jack's leave him put the bottles back
mends his glasses that I cracked well that one's up to me.
Buy a silver cloud to ride pack the tennis club inside
trouser cuffs hung far too wide well it was up to me.
Tyres down on your bicycle your nose feels like an icicle
the yellow fingered smoky girl is looking up to me.
Well I'm a common working man with a half of butter bread and jam
and if it pleases me I'll put one one you man when the copper fades away.
The rainy season comes to pass the day-glo pirate sinks at last
and if I laughed a bit too fast.
Well it was up to me.
My God
People what have you done locked him in his golden cage.
Made him bend to your religion Him resurrected from the grave.
He is the God of nothing if that's all that you can see.
You are the God of everything He's a part of you and me.
So lean upon him gently and don't call on Him to save you
from your social graces and the sins you wash to waive.
The bloody Church of England in chains of history
requests' your earthly presence at the vicarage for tea.
And the graven image you-know-who he's got him fixed
with his plastic crucifix confuses me as in who and where and why
as to how he gets his kicks.
Confessing to endless sin the endless whining sounds.
You'll be praying till next Thursday to all the God that you can count.
Hymn 43
Oh father high in heaven smile down upon your son
whose busy with his money games his women and his gun.
And the unsung Western Hero killed an indian or three
and made his name in Hollywood to set the white man free.
If Jesus saves, well he'd better save himself
from the gory glory seekers who use his name in death.
I saw him in the city and on the mountains of the moon
his cross was rather bloody He could hardly roll his stone.
Slipstream
Well the lush separation enfolds you and the products of wealth
push you along on the bow wave of the spiritless undying selves.
And you press on God's waiter your last dime as he hands you the bill.
And you spin in the slipstream timeless unreasoning
paddle right out of the mess.
Locomotive Breath
In the Shuffling madness of the locomotive breath,
runs the all time loser, headlong to his death.
He feels the piston scraping steam breaking on his brow
old Charlie stole the handle and the train won't stop going
no way to slow down.
He sees his children jumping off at stations one by one.
His woman and his best friend in bed and having fun.
Crawling down the corridor on his hands and knees
He hears the silence howling catches angels as they fall.
And the all time winner has got him by the balls.
He picks up Gideon's Bible open at page one
Wind Up
When I was young, they packed me off to school and taught me how not to play the game.
I didn't mind if they groomed me for success, or if they said that I was a fool.
So I left there in the morning with their God tucked underneath my arm
their half-asses smiles and the book of rules.
So I asked this God a question and by way of firm reply,
He said I'm not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays.
So to my old headmaster (and to anyone who cares); before I'm through I'd like to say my
prayers
I don't believe you: you got the whole damn thing all wrong
He's not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays.
Well you can excommunicate me on my way to Sunday school
and have all the bishops harmonize these lines
how do you dare tell me that I'm my fathers son
when that was just an accident of Birth.
I'd rather look around me compose a better song
'cos that's the honest measure of my worth.
In your pomp and all your glory, you're a poorer man than me.
Wond'ring Aloud Again (Full Morgan Version)
Wond'ring aloud how we feel today.

Last night sipped the sunset my hands in her hair.
We are our own saviours as we start both our hearts beating life into each other.
Wond'ring aloud will the years treat us well.
As she floats in the kitchen, I'm tasting the smell of toast as the butter runs.
Then she comes, spilling crumbs on the bed and I shake my head.
And later Im up with the late workers shouting more giving himself completely she did long
before.
And its only the giving that makes you what you are.
Wondring aloud
Will a son one day be born to share in our infancy
In the childs path weve worn
In the ageing seclusion of this earth that our birth did surprise
well open his eyes
Theres the stillness of death on a breathly un-living sea, and the motor car magical world
long since ceased to be
when the Eve-bitten apple
returned to destroy the tree
Incestuous ancestrys charabanc ride.
Spawning new millions
throws the world on its side.
Supporting their far flung illusion, the national curse
and those with no sandwiches, please get of the bus.
The excrement bubbles.
the centurys slime decays and the brainwashing government lackeys would have us say
Its under control and well soon be on our way to a grand year for babies and quiz panel
games of the hot hungry millions youll sure to remain.
The natural resources are dwindling
and no one grows old, and those with no homes to go to, please dig yourself holes.
We wandered through quiet lanes, felt the first breath of snow.
Searched for the last pigeon, slate grey Ive been told.
Stumbled on a daffodil which she crushed in the rush, heard a sigh and left it to die.
At once felt remorse and were touched by the loss of our own,
held its poor broken head in her hands, dropped soft tears in the snow,
and its only the taking that makes you what you are.
Wondring aloud will a son one day be born to share in our infancy
in the childs path weve worn.
In the ageing seclusion of this earth that our birth did surprise, well open his eyes.
Thick As a Brick
Release date: 10. March 1972 (UK)
Ian Anderson - Flute, acoustic guitar, violin, saxophone, trumpet, vocals.
Martin Barre - Electric guitar, lute.
Barriemore Barlow - Drums, timpani, percussion.
Jeffrey Hammond-Hammond - Bass, spoken word.
John Evans - Organ, piano, harpsichord.
Thick As A Brick part one

Thick As A Brick part two
A 40th Anniversary collectors edition is scheduled for release in 2012 featuring a completely
new stereo mix and 5.1 surround version mixed by Steven Wilson.
Thick As A Brick
Really don't mind if you sit this one out.
My words but a whisper - your deafness a SHOUT.
I may make you feel but I can't make you think.
Your sperm's in the gutter - your love's in the sink.
So you ride yourselves over the fields and
you make all your animal deals and
your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick.
And the sand-castle virtues are all swept away in
the tidal destruction
the moral melee.
The elastic retreat rings the close of play as the last wave uncovers
the newfangled way.
But your new shoes are worn at the heels and
your suntan does rapidly peel and
And the love that I feel is so far away:

I'm a bad dream that I just had today - and you
shake your head and
say it's a shame.
Spin me back down the years and the days of my youth.

Draw the lace and black curtains and shut out the whole truth.
Spin me down the long ages: let them sing the song.
See there! A son is born - and we pronounce him fit to fight.

There are black-heads on his shoulders, and he pees himself in the night.
We'll make a man of him

put him to trade
teach him to play Monopoly and
to sing in the rain.
The Poet and the painter casting shadows on the water

as the sun plays on the infantry returning from the sea.
The do-er and the thinker: no allowance for the other
as the failing light illuminates the mercenary's creed.
The home fire burning: the kettle almost boiling
but the master of the house is far away.
The horses stamping - their warm breath clouding
in the sharp and frosty morning of the day.
And the poet lifts his pen while the soldier sheaths his sword.
And the youngest of the family is moving with authority.

Building castles by the sea, he dares the tardy tide to wash them all aside.
The cattle quietly grazing at the grass down by the river

where the swelling mountain water moves onward to the sea:
the builder of the castles renews the age-old purpose
and contemplates the milking girl whose offer is his need.
The young men of the household have
all gone into service and
are not to be expected for a year.
The innocent young master - thoughts moving ever faster
has formed the plan to change the man he seems.
And the poet sheaths his pen while the soldier lifts his sword.
And the oldest of the family is moving with authority.

Coming from across the sea, he challenges the son who puts him to the run.
What do you do when

the old man's gone - do you want to be him? And
your real self sings the song.
Do you want to free him?
No one to help you get up steam
and the whirlpool turns you `way off-beam.
LATER.
I've come down from the upper class to mend your rotten ways.
My father was a man-of-power whom everyone obeyed.
So come on all you criminals!
I've got to put you straight just like I did with my old man
twenty years too late.
Your bread and water's going cold.
Your hair is too short and neat.
I'll judge you all and make damn sure that no-one judges me.
You curl your toes in fun as you smile at everyone - you meet the stares.
You're unaware that your doings aren't done.
And you laugh most ruthlessly as you tell us what not to be.
But how are we supposed to see where we should run?
I see you shuffle in the courtroom with
your rings upon your fingers and
your downy little sidies and
your silver-buckle shoes.
Playing at the hard case, you follow the example of the comic-paper idol
who lets you bend the rules.
So!
Come on ye childhood heroes!
Won't you rise up from the pages of your comic-books
your super crooks
and show us all the way.
Well! Make your will and testament. Won't you?
Join your local government.
We'll have Superman for president
let Robin save the day.
You put your bet on number one and it comes up every time.
The other kids have all backed down and they put you first in line.
And so you finally ask yourself just how big you are
and take your place in a wiser world of bigger motor cars.
And you wonder who to call on.
So! Where the hell was Biggles when you needed him last Saturday?
And where were all the sportsmen who always pulled you though?
They're all resting down in Cornwall
writing up their memoirs for a paper-back edition
of the Boy Scout Manual.
LATER.
See there! A man born - and we pronounce him fit for peace.
There's a load lifted from his shoulders with the discovery of his disease.
We'll
take the child from him
put it to the test
teach it
to be a wise man
how to fool the rest.
QUOTE
We will be geared to the average rather than the exceptional

God is an overwhelming responsibility
we walked through the maternity ward and saw 218 babies wearing nylons
cats are on the upgrade
upgrade? Hipgrave. Oh, Mac.
LATER
In the clear white circles of morning wonder,

I take my place with the lord of the hills.
And the blue-eyed soldiers stand slightly discoloured (in neat little rows)
sporting canvas frills.
With their jock-straps pinching, they slouch to attention,

while queueing for sarnies at the office canteen.
Saying -- how's your granny and
good old Ernie: he coughed up a tenner on a premium bond win.
The legends (worded in the ancient tribal hymn) lie cradled

in the seagull's call.
And all the promises they made are ground beneath the sadist's fall.
The poet and the wise man stand behind the gun,
and signal for the crack of dawn.
Light the sun.
Do you believe in the day? Do you?

Believe in the day! The Dawn Creation of the Kings has begun.
Soft Venus (lonely maiden) brings the ageless one.
Do you believe in the day?
The fading hero has returned to the night - and fully pregnant with the day,
wise men endorse the poet's sight.
Do you believe in the day? Do you? Believe in the day!
Let me tell you the tales of your life of

your love and the cut of the knife
the tireless oppression
the wisdom instilled
the desire to kill or be killed.
Let me sing of the losers who lie in the street as the last bus goes by.
The pavements ar empty: the gutters run red - while the fool
toasts his god in the sky.
So come all ye young men who are building castles!
Kindly state the time of the year and join your voices in a hellish chorus.
Mark the precise nature of your fear.
Let me help you pick up your dead as the sins of the father are fed
with
the blood of the fools and
the thoughts of the wise and
from the pan under your bed.
Let me make you a present of song as
the wise man breaks wind and is gone while
the fool with the hour-glass is cooking his goose and
the nursery rhyme winds along.
So! Come all ye young men who are building castles!

Kindly state the time of the year and join your voices in a hellish chorus.
Mark the precise nature of your fear.
See! The summer lightning casts its bolts upon you
and the hour of judgement draweth near.

Would you be
the fool stood in his suit of armour or
the wiser man who rushes clear.
So! Come on ye childhood heroes!
Won't your rise up from the pages of your comic-books
your super-crooks and
show us all the way.
Well! Make your will and testament.
Won't you? Join your local government.
We'll have Superman for president
let Robin save the day.
So! Where the hell was Biggles when you needed him last Saturday?
And where were all the sportsmen who always pulled you through?
They're all resting down in Cornwall - writing up their memoirs
for a paper-back edition of the Boy Scout Manual.
OF COURSE
So you ride yourselves over the fields and

you make all your animal deals and
Living In The Past
Release date: 23. June 1972 (UK)
Ian Anderson - Flute, balalaika, mandolin, Hammond organ, acoustic guitar, vocals, all tracks
Mick Abrahams - Electric guitar, tracks 1 3
Martin Barre - Electric guitar, tracks 4 21
Clive Bunker - Drums, glockenspiel, percussion, tracks 1 - 11 and 13 16
Glenn Cornick - Bass, Hammond organ, tracks 1 - 11 and 13 15
John Evans Celeste, piano, tracks 9 21
Jeffrey Hammond-Hammond - Bass, backing vocals, tracks 16 21
Barriemore Barlow Drums, tracks 17 21
David Palmer - orchestral arrangement and conducting, track 7
Song for Jeffrey

Love Story
A Christmas Song
Living in the Past
Driving Song
Boure
Sweet Dream
Singing All Day
Witches Promise
Teacher
Inside
Just Trying to Be
By Kind Permission Of [Live]
Dharma for One [Live]
Wond'ring Again
Locomotive Breath
Life Is a Long Song
Up the 'Pool
Dr. Bogenbroom
For Later [Instrumental]
Nursie
Love Story
Going back in the morning time
to see if my love has changed her mind, yeah.
I know what I will find
that she is wasting time,
she could be picking roses.

to see if my love has seen the light, yeah.
Oh, I told her last night
she should improve her sight,
she could be painting the roof.

to see if my love has come around, yeah.
She offered me no sound,
her head is in the ground,
She could be calling for winter.
Christmas Song
Once in Royal David's City stood a lonely cattle shed,
where a mother held her baby.
You'd do well to remember the things He later said.
When you're stuffing yourselves at the Christmas parties,
you'll just laugh when I tell you to take a running jump.
You're missing the point I'm sure does not need making
that Christmas spirit is not what you drink.
So how can you laugh when your own mother's hungry,

and how can you smile when the reasons for smiling are wrong?
And if I just messed up your thoughtless pleasures,
remember, if you wish, this is just a Christmas song.
Hey! Santa! Pass us that bottle, will you?

Living In The Past
Happy and I'm smiling,
walk a mile to drink your water.
You know I'd love to love you,
and above you there's no other.
We'll go walking out
while others shout of war's disaster.
Oh, we won't give in,
let's go living in the past.
Once I used to join in

every boy and girl was my friend.
Now there's revolution, but they don't know
what they're fighting.
Let us close out eyes;
outside their lives go on much faster.
Oh, we won't give in,
we'll keep living in the past.
Driving Song
Will they ever stop drivin' me?
Have they ever taken time to see
That I need some rest
if I'm to do my best?
Can I please stop workin' so hard?

They just tell me gotta close it hard.
Got to think of my health.
Can I be by myself?
Oh, they tell me I'll be home someday.

Well I doubt it if I continue this way,
`cause this hard life I've led
is makin' me dead.
Sweet Dream
You'll hear me calling in your sweet dream,
can't hear your daddy's warning cry.
You're going back to be all the things you want to be,
while in sweet dreams you softly sigh.
You hear my voice is calling

to be mine again,
live the rest of your life in a day.
Get out and get what you can
while your mummy's at home a-sleeping.
No time to understand
`cause they lost what they thought they were keeping.
No one can see us in your sweet dream.

don't hear you leave to start the car.
All wrapped up tightly in the coat you borrowed from me,
your place of resting is not far.
You'll hear my voice is calling

to be mine again,
live the rest of your life in a day.
Get out and get what you can
While your mummy's at home a-sleeping.
No time to understand,
`cause they lost what they thought they were keeping.
Singing All Day
Singing all day, singing `bout nothing.
Singing all day, singing `bout nothing,
oo, my, my, my,
oo, my, my, my.
Went down to the station to look for her there,

looked through the crowds for a glimpse of her hair,
nothing to see but the crowds keep a-staring at me,
my, my,
oo, my, my, my.
Down in the street, try'n' to remember,

shuffling my feet outside a menswear,
is that her in the fur coat?
No it's not December yet,
my, my, my,
oo, my, my, my.
Back to the house, maybe she'll phone me,

singing my song, feeling so lonely.
I'll sing very softly, so if the phone rings
I can hear it, I can hear it.

Singing all day, singing `bout nothing,
oo, my, my, my,
oo, my, my, my.
Witches Promise
Lend me your ear while I call you a fool.
You were kissed by a witch one night in the wood,
and later insisted your feelings were true.
The witch's promise was coming,
believing he listened while laughing you flew.
Leaves falling red, yellow, brown, all are the same,

and the love you have found lay outside in the rain.
Washed clean by the water but nursing its pain.
The witch's promise was coming, and you're looking
elsewhere for your own selfish gain.
Keep looking, keep looking for somewhere to be,

well, you're wasting your time, they're not stupid like he is.
Meanwhile leaves are still falling, you're too blind to see.
You won't find it easy now, it's only fair.

He was willing to give to you, you didn't care.
You're waiting for more but you've already had your share.
The witch's promise is turning, so don't you wait up
for him, he's going to be late.
Teacher
Well the dawn was coming,
heard him ringing on my bell.
He said, ``My name's the teacher,
that is what I call myself.
And I have a lesson
that I must impart to you.
It's an old expression
but I must insist it's true.
Jump up, look around,

find yourself some fun,
no sense in sitting there hating everyone.
No man's an island and his castle isn't home,
the nest is for nothing when the bird has flown.''
So I took a journey,
threw my world into the sea.
With me went the teacher
who found fun instead of me.
Hey man, what's the plan, what was that you said?
Sun-tanned, drink in hand, lying there in bed.
I try to socialize but I can't seem to find
what I was looking for, got something on my mind.
Then the teacher told me

it had been a lot of fun.
Thanked me for his ticket
and all that I had done.
Hey man, what's the plan, what was that you said?
Sun-tanned, drink in hand, lying there in bed.
I try to socialize but I can't seem to find
what I was looking for, got something on my mind.
Just Trying To Be
There was a time when you were so young and walked in their way.
They made you feel they loved you all-seeing they say.
You're going wrong if their game you don't play
And that the song I sing will leave you astray.
Unfeeling, feel lonely rejection,

unknowing, know you're going wrong.
And they can't see that we're just trying to be,
and not what we seem,
and even now believe that it's not real and only a dream.
Dharma For One.
Dharma, seek and you will find
truth within your mind, Dharma.
Dharma, each to his own we say,

together we'll end astray, Dharma.
Truth is like freedom, it doesn't fool me.

Be true to yourself, never think that you're free.
Dharma will come eventually.
Wond'ring Again
There's the stillness of death on a deathly unliving sea,
and the motor car magical world long since ceased to be,
when the Eve-bitten apple returned to destroy the tree.
Incestuous ancestry's charabanc ride,

spawning new millions throws the world on its side.
Supporting their far-flung illusion, the national curse,
and those with no sandwiches please get off the bus.
The excrement bubbles,

the century's slime decays
and the brainwashing government lackeys
would have us say
it's under control and we'll soon be on our way
to a grand year for babies and quiz panel games
of the hot hungry millions you'll be sure to remain.
The natural resources are dwindling and no one grows old,

and those with no homes to go to, please dig yourself holes.
We wandered through quiet lands, felt the first breath of snow.

Searched for the last pigeon, slate grey I've been told.
Stumbled on a daffodil which she crushed in the rush, heard it sigh,
and left it to die.
At once felt remorse and were touched by the loss of our own,
held its poor broken head in her hands,
dropped soft tears in the snow,
and it's only the taking that makes you what you are.
Wond'ring aloud will a son one day be born

to share in our infancy
in the child's path we've worn.
In the aging seclusion of this earth that our birth did surprise
we'll open his eyes.
Life Is A Long Song
When you're falling awake and you take stock of the new day,
and you hear your voice croak as you choke on what you need to say,
well, don't you fret, don't you fear,
I will give you good cheer.
Life's a long song.

Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.
If you wait then your plate I will fill.
As the verses unfold and your soul suffers the long day,
and the twelve o'clock gloom spins the room,
you struggle on your way.
Well, don't you sigh, don't you cry,
lick the dust from your eye.
Life's a long song.

Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.
We will meet in the sweet light of dawn.
As the Baker Street train spills your pain all over your new dress,
and the symphony sounds underground put you under duress,
well don't you squeal as the heel grinds you under the wheel.
Life's a long song.

Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.
But the tune ends too soon for us all.

Up The `Pool
I'm going up the `pool from down the smoke below
to taste my mum's jam sarnies and see our Aunty Flo.
The candyfloss salesman watches ladies in the sand
down for a freaky weekend in the hope that they'll be meeting
Mister Universe.
The iron tower smiles down upon the silver sea

and along the golden mile they'll be swigging mugs of tea.
The politicians there who've come to take the air
while posing for the daily press
will look around and blame the mess
on Edward Bear.
There'll be bucket, spades and bingo, cockles, mussels, rainy days,

seaweed and sand castles, icy waves.
Deck chairs, rubber dinghies, old vests, braces dangling down,
sun-tanned stranded starfish in a daze.
We're going up the `pool from down the smoke below

to taste my mum's jam sarnies and see our Aunty Flo.
The candy floss salesman watches ladies in the sand
down for a freaky weekend in the hope that they'll be meeting
Mister Universe.
There'll be buckets, spades and bingo, cockles, mussels, rainy days,

seaweed and sand castles, icy waves,
Deck chairs, rubber dinghies, old vests, braces dangling down,
sun-tanned stranded starfish in a daze.
Oh Blackpool,
oh Blackpool.
Dr. Bogenbroom
I have one foot in the graveyard and the other on the bus,
and the passengers do trample each other in the rush.
And the chicken hearted lawman is throwing up his fill
to see the kindly doctor to pass the super pill.
Well, I'm going down, three cheers for Doctor Bogenbroom.
Well, I'm on my way, three cheers for Doctor Bogenbroom.
Well I've tried my best to love you all,

all you hypocrites and whores,
with your eyes on each other and the locks upon your doors.
Well you drowned me in the fountain of life and I hated you
for living while I was dying, we were all just passing through.
Well, I'm going down, three cheers for Doctor Bogenbroom.
Well, I'm on my way, three cheers for Doctor Bogenbroom.
Nursie
Tip-toes in silence `round my bed
and quiets the raindrops overhead.
With her everlasting smile
She still my fever for a while.
Oh, nursie dear,
I'm glad you're here
to brush away my pain.
A Passion Play
Release date: 06. July 1973 (UK)
Ian Anderson - Flute, acoustic guitars, soprano saxophone, sopranino saxophone, vocals.
Martin Barre - Electric guitar.
Barriemore Barlow - Drums, timpani, glockenspiel, marimba.
Jeffrey Hammond-Hammond - Bass, vocals.
John Evans - Piano, organ, synthesizer, spken word.
A Passion Play
The Story Of The Hare Who Lost His Spectacles
The End
A Passion Play
"Do you still see me even here?''
(The silver cord lies on the ground).
"And so I'm dead'', the young man said ---
over the hill (not a wish away).
My friends (as one) all stand aligned
although their taxis came too late.
There was a rush along the Fulham Road.
There was a hush in the Passion Play.
Such a sense of glowing in the aftermath
ripe with rich attainments
all imagined sad misdeeds in disarray
the sore thumb screams aloud,
echoing out of the Passion Play.
All the old familiar choruses
come crowding in a different key:
Melodies decaying in sweet dissonance.
There was a rush along the Fulham Road
into the Ever-Passion Play.
And who comes here to wish me well?

A sweetly-scented angel fell.
She laid her head upon my disbelief
and bathed me with her ever-smile.
And with a howl across the sand
I go escorted by a band of gentlemen
in leather bound -- NO-ONE
(but someone to be found).
All along the icy wastes

there are faces smiling in the gloom.
Roll up roll down,
Feeling unwound? -- step into the viewing room.
The cameras were all around.
We've got you taped -- you're in the play.
Here's your I.D.
(Ideal for identifying one and all.)
Invest your life in the Memory Bank -
ours the interest and we thank you.
The ice-cream lady wet her drawers,
to see you in the passion play.
Take the prize for instant pleasure
captain of the cricket team
public speaking in all weathers
a knighthood from a queen.
All your best friends' telephones never
cooled from the heat of your hand.
There's a line in a front-page story
13 horses that also-ran.
Climb in your old umbrella.
Does it have a nasty tear in the dome?
But the rain only gets in sometimes and
the sun never leaves you alone.
Lover of the black and white -- it's your first night.

The Passion Play goes all the way spoils your insight.
Tell me how the baby's made,
how the lady's laid
why the old dog howls in sadness.
And your little sister's immaculate virginity
wings away on the bony shoulders of a young
horse named George who stole surreptitiously
into her geography revision.
(The examining body examined her body.)
Actor of the low-high Q, let's hear your view.
Peek at the lines upon your sleeves
since your memory won't do.
Tell me how the baby's graded
how the lady's faded
why the old dogs howl with madness.
All of this and some of that's

the only way to skin the cat.
And now you've lost a skin or two -
you're for us and we for you.
The dressing room is right behind
We've got you taped -- you're in the play.
How does it feel to be in the play?
How does it feel to play the play?
How does it feel to be the play?
Man of passion rise again,
we won't cross you out -- for we do love
you like a son -- of that there's no doubt.
Tell us is it you who are here for our good cheer?
Or are we here for the glory, for the story,
for the gory satisfaction of telling you
how absolutely awful you really are?
There was a rush along the Fulham Road.
There was a hush in the Passion Play.
The Story Of The Hare Who Lost His Spectacles
This is the story of the hare who lost his spectacles.
Owl loved to rest quietly

whilst no one was watching.
Sitting on a fence one day,
he was surprised when suddenly
a kangaroo ran close by.
Now this may not seem strange,
but when Owl overheard Kangaroo
whisper to no one in particular,
"The hare has lost his spectacles,''
well, he began to wonder.
Presently, the moon appeared from behind a cloud
and there, lying on the grass was Hare.
In the stream that flowed by the grass -
a Newt.
And sitting astride a twig of a bush - a Bee.
Ostensibly motionless, the hare
was trembling with excitement,
for without his spectacles
he appeared completely helpless.
Where were his spectacles?
Could someone have stolen them?
Had he mislaid them?
What was he to do?
Bee wanted to help,
and thinking he had the answer began:
"You probably ate them thinking
they were a carrot.''
"No!'' interrupted Owl, who was wise.
"I have good eye-sight, insight, and foresight.
How could an intelligent hare
make such a silly mistake?''
But all this time,
Owl had been sitting on the fence, scowling!
Kangaroo were hopping mad at this sort of talk.
She thought herself far superior in
intelligence to the others.
She was their leader; their guru.
She had the answer:
"Hare, you must go in search of the optician.''
But then she realized that Hare was
completely helpless without his spectacles.
And so, Kangaroo loudly proclaimed,
"I can't send Hare in search of anything!''
"You can guru, you can!'' shouted Newt.
"You can send him with Owl.''
But Owl had gone to sleep.
Newt knew too much to be stopped
by so small a problem -
"You can take him in your pouch".
But alas, Hare was much too big
to fit into Kangaroo's pouch.
All this time, it had been quite plain to Hare
that the others knew nothing about spectacles.
As for all their tempting ideas,
well Hare didn't care.
The lost spectacles were his own affair.
And after all, Hare did have a spare a-pair.
A-pair.
The End
We sleep by the ever-bright hole
in the door, eat in the corner
talk to the floor -
cheating the spiders who come to say
"Please'', (politely).
They bend at the knees.
Well, I'll go to the foot of our stairs.
Old gentlemen talk of when they were young,
of ladies lost and erring sons.
Lace-covered dandies revel (with friends)

pure as the truth -- tied at both ends.
Well I'll go to the foot of our stairs.
Scented cathedral -- spire pointed down.
We pray for souls in Kentish Town.
A delicate hush -- the gods floating by
wishing us well -- pie in the sky.
God of ages, Lord of Time -
mine is the right to be wrong.
Well I'll go to the foot of our stairs.
Jack rabbit mister... spawn a new breed
of love-hungry pilgrims
(no bodies to feed).
Show me a good man.
I'll show you the door.
The last hymn is sung
and the devil cries "More.''
Well, I'm all for leaving and that being done,

I've put in a request to take up my turn
in that forsaken paradise that
calls itself "Hell'' where
no-one has nothing and nothing is well meaning fool,
pick up thy bed and rise up from your gloom smiling.
Give me your hate and do as the loving heathen do.
Colors I've none -- dark or light,
red, white or blue.
Cold is my touch (freezing).
Summoned by name -- I am the overseer over you.
Given this command to watch
o'er our miserable sphere.
Fallen from grace
called on to bring sun or rain.
Occasional corn from my oversight grew.
Fell with mine angels from a far better place,
offering services for the saving of face.
Now you're here,
you may as well admire all whom living
has retired from the benign reconciliation.
Legends were born surrounding mysterious
lights seen in the sky (flashing).
I just lit a fag, then took my
leave in the blink of an eye.
Passionate play -- join round the maypole
in dance (primitive rite) (wrongly).
Summoned by name I am the overseer over you.
Flee the icy Lucifer.

Oh he's an awful fellow!
What a mistake!
I didn't take a feather from his pillow.
Here's the everlasting rub: neither am I good or bad.
I'd give up my halo for a horn
and the horn for the hat I once had.
I'm only breathing.
There's life on my ceiling.
The flies there are sleeping quietly.
Twist my right arm in the dark.

I would give two or three for one of those days
that never made impressions on the old score.
I would gladly be a dog barking up the wrong tree.
Everyone's saved -- we're in the grave.
See you there for afternoon tea.
Time for awaking -- the tea lady's
making a brew-up and baking new bread.
Pick me up at half past none -
there's not a moment to lose.
There is the train on which I came.
On the platform are my old shoes.
Station master rings his bell.
Whistles blow and flags wave.
A little of what you fancy does you good
(Or so it should).
I thank everybody for making me welcome.
I'd stay but my wings have just dropped off.
Hail! Son of kings,

make the ever-dying sign
cross your fingers in the sky
for those about to BE.
There am I waiting along the sand.
Cast your sweet spell upon the land and sea.
Magus Perde, take your hand from off the chain.
Loose a wish to still the rain
the storm about to BE.
Here am I (voyager into life).
Tough are the soles that tread the knife's edge.
Break the circle, stretch the line,
call upon the devil.
Bring the gods the gods' own fire.
In the conflict revel.
The passengers upon the ferry crossing
waiting to be born renew the
pledge of life's long song
rise to the reveille horn.
Animals queueing at the gate
that stands upon the shore,
breathe the ever-burning fire
that guards the ever-door.
Man son of man buy
he flame of ever-life
(yours to breathe and breath
the pain of living): living BE!
Here am I!
Roll the stone away from the dark
into ever-day.
There was a rush along the Fulham Road

into the Ever-passion Play.
Warchild
Release dates: 26. October 1974 (UK)
Ian Anderson - Flute, acoustic guitar, alto saxophone, soprano saxophone, sopranino
saxophone, vocals
Martin Barre - Electric guitar, spanish guitar
Barriemore Barlow - Drums, glockenspiel, marimba, percussion
Jeffrey Hammond-Hammond - Bass, string bass
John Evans - Piano, organ, synthesizers, piano accordion
WarChild
Queen and Country
Ladies
Back-Door Angels
SeaLion
Skating Away On The Thin Ice Of The New Day
Bungle In The Jungle
Only Solitaire
The Third Hoorah
Two Fingers
WarChild
"Would you like another cup of tea, dear?"
"Er, no, no, no, I'd better go actually.
I'll be late for the office."
I'll take you down to that bright city mile,

there to powder your sweet face and paint on a smile,
that will show all of the pleasures and none of the pain,
when you join my explosion and play with my games.
WarChild dance the days, and dance the nights away.
No unconditional surrender, no armistice day;

each night I'll die in my contentment,
and lie in your grave.
While you bring me water and I give you wine,
let me dance in your tea-cup and you shall swim in mine.
Open your windows and I'll walk through your doors.

Let me live in your country, let me sleep by your shores.

WarChild...
Queen and Country
The wind is on the river
and the tide has turned too late,
so we're sailing for another shore
where some other ladies wait.
To throw us silken whispers,
catch us by the anchor chains,
but we all laugh so politely
and we sail on just the same.
For Queen and Country in the long dying day,

And it's been this way for five long years,
since we signed our souls away.
We bring back gold and ivory,

rings of diamonds, strings of pearls,
make presents to the government
so they can have their social whirl.
With Queen and Country in the long dying day.

And it's been this way for five long years
For Queen and Country in the long dying day,

And it's been this way for five long years,
They build schools and they build factories,

with the spoils of battles won.
And we remain their pretty sailor boys,
hold our heads up to the gun.
Of Queen and Country in the long dying day.

To Queen and Country in the long dying day.

Ladies
Ladies of leisure,
with their eyes on the back roads.
All looking for strangers,
to whom they extend welcomes
with a smile and a glimpse of pink knees and elbows;
Of satin and velvet.
Good ladies, good fortune.
Ladies. Ladies. Ladies.
They sing of their heroes: of solitary soldiers,

Invested in good health and manner most charming.
Whose favors are numbered
(none the less well intended)
By hours in a minute;
by those ladies who bless them.
Ladies. Ladies.
Back-Door Angels
In and out of the front door,
ran twelve back-door angels.
Their hair was a golden-brown,
they didn't see me wink my eye.
'Tis said they put we men to sleep
with just a whisper,
And touch the heads of dying dogs
and make them linger.
They carry their candles high,
and they light the dark hours.
And sweep all the country clean
with pressed and scented wild-flowers.
They grow all their roses red,

and paint our skies blue,
drop one penny in every second bowl,
make half the beggars lose.
Why do the faithful have such a will

to believe in something?
And call it the name they choose,
having chosen nothing.
Think I'll sit down and invent some fool,

some Grand Court Jester.
And next time the die is cast,
he'll throw a six or two.
In and out of the back-door,
ran one front-door angel.
Her hair was a golden-brown;
she smiled, and I think she winked her eye.
SeaLion
Over the mountains, and under the sky,
riding dirty gray horses, go you and I.
Mating with chance, copulating with mirth,
the sad-glad paymasters (for what it's worth).
The ice-cream castles are refrigerated;
the super-marketeers are on parade.
There's a golden handshake hanging round your neck,
as you light your cigarette on the burning deck.
And you balance your world

on the tip of your nose
like a SeaLion with a ball, at the carnival.
You wear a shiny skin and a funny hat;

the Almighty Animal Trainer lets it go at that.
You bark ever-so-slightly at the Trainer's gun,
with you whiskers melting in the noon-day sun.
You flip and you flop under the Big White Top
where the long-legged ring-mistress starts and stops.
But you know, after all, the act is wearing thin
as the crowd grows uneasy and the boos begin.
But you balance your world

on the tip of your nose,
you're a SeaLion with a ball, at the carnival.
Just a trace of pride upon our fixed grins,

for there is no business like the show we're in.
There is no reason, no rhyme, no right to leave
the circus 'til we've said good-night.
The same performance, in the same old way;
it's the same old story to this Passion Play.
So we'll shoot the moon,
and hope to call the tune,
and make no pin cushion of this big balloon.
Look how we balance the world

on the tips of our noses,
like SeaLions with a ball, at the carnival.
Skating away on the Thin Ice of a New Day
Meanwhile back in the year One,
when you belonged to no-one,
you didn't stand a chance, son,
if your pants were undone.
'Cause you were bred for humanity
and sold to society.
One day you'll wake up in the Present Day,
a million generations removed from expectations
of being who you really want to be.
Skating away, skating away,
skating away on the thin ice of the New Day.
So as you push off from the shore,

won't you turn your head once more,
and make your peace with everyone?
For those who choose to stay,
will live just one more day,
to do the things they should have done.
And as you cross the wilderness,
spinning in your emptiness,
you feel you have to pray.
Looking for a sign that the Universal
Mind has written you into the Passion Play.
Skating away, skating away,
skating away on the thin ice of the New Day.
And as you cross the Circle Line,

well, the ice-wall creaks behind
you're a rabbit on the run.
And the silver splinters fly
in the corner of your eye,
shining in the setting sun.
Well, do you ever get the feeling
that the story's too damn real
and in the present tense?
Or that everybody's on the stage,
and it seems like you're the only person
sitting in the audience?
Skating away, skating away, skating away on the thin ice of the New Day.
Skating away, skating away, skating away...
Bungle in the Jungle
Walking through forests
of palm tree apartments,
scoff at the monkeys
who live in their dark tents.
Down by the waterhole,
drunk every Friday,
eating their nuts,
saving their raisins for Sunday.
Lions and tigers who wait in the shadows,
they're fast but they're lazy,
and sleep in green meadows.
Well, let's bungle in the jungle,

well, that's all right by me, yes.
I'm a tiger when I want love,
but I'm a snake if we disagree.
Just say a word and the boys will be right there,

with claws at your back
to send a chill through the night air.
Is it so frightening to have me at your shoulder?
Thunder and lightning couldn't be bolder.

I'll write on your tombstone, "I thank you for dinner.''
This game that we animals play is a winner.

The rivers are full of crocodile nasties,

and He who made kittens put snakes in the grass.
He's a lover of life but a player of pawns,
yes, the King on His sunset lies waiting for dawn
to light up His Jungle as play is resumed.
The monkeys seem willing to strike up the tune.

Yes, let's bungle in the jungle,
Only Solitaire
Brain-storming, habit-forming,
battle-warning, weary
Winsome actor spewing spineless chilling lines.
The critics falling over to tell themselves he's boring,
and really not an awful lot of fun.
Well, who the hell can he be
when he's never had V.D.,
and he doesn't even sit on toilet seats?
Court-jesting, never-resting, he must be very cunning

to assume an air of dignity,
and bless us all with his oratory prowess,
his lame-brained antics, and his jumping in the air.
And every night his act's the same and so
it must be all a game of chess he's playing...
"But you're wrong, Steve.
You see, it's only solitaire.''
The Third Hoorah
Hoorah!
WarChild, dance the days and nights away,
sweet child, how do you do today?
When your back's to the wall,

and your luck is your all,
then side with whoever you may.
Seek that which within lies waiting to begin
the fight of your life that is everyday.
Dance with the WarChild, the WarChild, Hoorah.


In the heart of your heart,

there's the tiniest part of an urge to live to the death,
with a sword on your hip and a cry on your lips
to strike life in the inner child's breast.
WarChild, dance the days and nights away.

Two Fingers
I'll see you at the Weighing-In,
when your life's sum-total's made.
I'll see you at the Weighing-In,

And you set your wealth in Goodly deeds
against the sins you've laid.
And you place your final burden

on your hard-pressed next of kin.
Send the chamber-pot back down
the line to be filled up again.
And the hard-headed miracle worker

who bathes his hands in blood,
will welcome you to the final "nod"
and cover you with mud.
And he'll say, "You really should make the deal,''
as he offers round the hat.
"Well, you'd better lick two fingers clean,
He'll thank you all for that.''
As you slip on the greasy platform,

and you land upon your back,
you make a wish and you wipe
your nose upon the railway track.
While the high-strung locomotive,
with furnace burning bright, lumbers on.
You wave goodbye, and the sparks fade into night.
Yeah...
And as you join the Good Ship Earth,

and you mingle with the dust,
you'd better leave your underpants
with someone you can trust.
And when the Old Man with the telescope
cuts the final strand,
you'd better lick two fingers clean,
before you shake his hand.
Minstrel In The Gallery
Release date: 05. September 1975 (UK)
Ian Anderson - Flute, electric guitar, vocals
Martin Barre - Electric guitar
Barriemore Barlow - Drums, percussion
Jeffrey Hammond-Hammond - Bass, string bass
John Evans - Piano, organ

Cold Wind To Valhalla
Black Satin Dancer
Requiem
One White Duck
Baker Street Muse
a) Baker Street Muse
b) Pig Me And The Whore
c) Nice Little Tune
d) Crash Barrier Waltzer
e) Mother England Reverie
Grace
The minstrel in the gallery
looked down upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes observed the spaces
between the old men's cackle.
He brewed a song of love and hatred,
oblique suggestions and he waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters,
static-humming panel-beaters,
freshly day-glow'd factory cheaters
(salaried and collar-scrubbing.)
He titillated men-of-action
belly warming, hands still rubbing
on the parts they never mention.
He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating,
one-line jokers, TV documentary makers
(overfed and undertakers.)
Sunday paper backgammon players
family-scarred and women-haters.
Then he called the band down to the stage
and he looked at all the friends he'd made.

He met the gazes observed the spaces
in between the old men's cackle.
He brewed a song of love and hatred,
oblique suggestions and he waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters,
static-humming panel-beaters,

looked down on the rabbit-run.
And threw away his looking-glass -
saw his face in everyone.
He titillated men-of-action
belly warming, hands still rubbing
on the parts they never mention.
(salaried and collar-scrubbing.)
He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating,
one-line jokers, TV documentary makers
(overfed and undertakers.)
Sunday paper backgammon players
family-scarred and women-haters.
Then he called the band down to the stage
and he looked at all the friends he'd made.

looked down on the rabbit-run.
And threw away his looking-glass -
and saw his face in everyone.

He met the gazes...
Cold Wind to Valhalla
And ride with us young bonny lass

with the angels of the night.
Crack wind clatter flesh rein bite
on an out-size unicorn.
Rough-shod winging sky blue flight
on a cold wind to Valhalla.
And join with us please
Valkyrie maidens cry
above the cold wind to Valhalla.
Breakfast with the gods. Night angels serve
with ice-bound majesty.
Frozen flaking fish raw nerve

in a cup of silver liquid fire.
Moon jet brave beam split ceiling swerve
and light the old Valhalla.
Come join with us please
Valkyrie maidens cry
above the cold wind to Valhalla.
The heroes rest upon the sighs
of Thor's trusty hand maidens.
Midnight lonely whisper cries,
"We're getting a bit short on heroes lately."
Sword snap fright white pale goodbyes
in the desolation of Valhalla.
And join with us please
Valkyrie maidens ride
empty-handed on the cold wind to Valhalla.
Black Satin Dancer
Come, let me play with you, black satin dancer.
In all your giving, given is the answer.
Tearing life from limb and looking sweeter
than the brightest flower in my garden.
Begging your pardon shedding right unreason.
Over sensation fly the fleeting seasons.
Thin wind whispering on broken mandolin.
Bending the minutes the hours ever turning
on that old gold story of mercy:
desperate breathing, tongue nipple-teasing.
Your fast river flowing your northern fire fed.
Come, black satin dancer, come softly to bed.
Requiem
Well, I saw a bird today
flying from a bush
and the wind blew it away.
And the black-eyed mother sun
scorched the butterfly at play
velvet veined. I saw it burn.
With a wintry storm-blown sigh,
a silver cloud blew right on by.
And, taking in the morning, I sang
O Requiem.
Well, my lady told me, "Stay."

I looked aside and walked away
along the strand.
But I didn't say a word,
as the train time-table blurred
close behind the taxi stand.
Saw her face in the tear-drop black cab window.
Fading into the traffic; watched her go.
And taking in the morning,
heard myself singing
O Requiem.
Here I go again.
It's the same old story.
Well, I saw a bird today

I looked aside and walked away
along the strand.
One White Duck / 0^{10} = Nothing At All
There's a haze on the skyline, to wish me on my way.
And there's a note on the telephone
some roses on a tray.
And the motorway's stretching right out to us all,
as I pull on my old wings
one white duck on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?
I'll catch a ride on your violin

strung upon your bow.
And I'll float on your melody
sing your chorus soft and low.
There's a picture-view postcard to say that I called.
You can see from the fireplace, one white duck on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?
So fly away Peter and fly away Paul

from the finger-tip ledge of contentment.
The long restless rustle of high-heeled boots calls.
And I'm probably bound to deceive you after all.
Something must be wrong with me and my brain

if I'm so patently unrewarding.
But my dreams are for dreaming and best left that way
and my zero to your power of ten equals nothing at all.
There's no double-lock defense; there's no chain on my door.

I'm available for consultation,
But remember your way in is also my way out,
and love's four-letter word is no compensation.
Well, I'm the Black Ace dog-handler: I'm a waiter on skates

so don't you jump to your foreskin conclusion.
Because I'm up to my deaf ears in cold breakfast trays
to be cleared before I can dine on your sweet Sunday lunch confusion.
Baker Street Muse
Windy bus-stop. Click. Shop-window. Heel.

Shady gentleman. Fly-button. Feel.
In the underpass, the blind man stands.
With cold flute hands.
Symphony match-seller, breath out of time.
You can call me on another line.
Indian restaurants that curry my brain.

Newspaper warriors changing the names they advertise from the station stand.
With cold print hands.
Symphony word-player, I'll be your headline.
If you catch me another time.
Didn't make her

with my Baker Street Ruse.
Couldn't shake her
with my Baker Street Bruise.
Like to take her
but I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
Ale-spew, puddle-brew
boys, throw it up clean.
Coke and Bacardi colours them green.
From the typing pool goes the mini-skirted princess with great finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, your burial mound is fifty feet down in the Baker Street underground.
(What the hell!)
Walking down the gutter thinking,
``How the hell am I today?''
Well, I didn't really ask you but thanks all the same.
Pig-Me And The Whore
``Big bottled Fraulein, put your weight on me,'' said the pig-me to the whore,
desperate for more in his assault upon the mountain.
Little man, his youth a fountain.
Overdrafted and still counting.
Vernacular, verbose; an attempt at getting close to where he came from.
In the doorway of the stars, between Blandford Street and Mars;
Proposition, deal. Flying button feel. Testicle testing.
Wallet ever-bulging. Dressed to the left, divulging the wrinkles of his years.
Wedding-bell induced fears.
Shedding bell-end tears in the pocket of her resistance.
International assistance flowing generous and full to his never-ready tool.
Pulls his eyes over her wool.
And he shudders as he comes.
And my rudder slowly turns me into the Marylebone Road.
Crash-Barrier Waltzer
And here slip I
dragging one foot in the gutter
in the midnight echo of the shop that sells cheap radios.
And there sits she
no bed, no bread, no butter
on a double yellow line
where she can park anytime.
Old Lady Grey; crash-barrier waltzer
some only son's mother. Baker Street casualty.
Oh, Mr. Policeman
blue shirt ballet master.
Feet in sticking plaster
move the old lady on.
Strange pas-de-deux
his Romeo to her Juliet.
Her sleeping draught, his poisoned regret.
No drunken bums allowed to sleep here in the crowded emptiness.
Oh officer, let me send her to a cheap hotel
I'll pay the bill and make her well - like hell you bloody will!
No do-good over kill. We must teach them to be still more independent.
Mother England Reverie
I have no time for Time Magazine or Rolling Stone.
I have no wish for wishing wells or wishing bones.
I have no house in the country I have no motor car.
And if you think I'm joking, then I'm just a one-line joker in a public bar.
And it seems there's no-body left for tennis; and I'm a one-band-man.
And I want no Top Twenty funeral or a hundred grand.
There was a little boy stood on a burning log,

rubbing his hands with glee. He said, `Òh Mother England,
did you light my smile; or did you light this fire under me?
One day I'll be a minstrel in the gallery.
And paint you a picture of the queen.
And if sometimes I sing to a cynical degree
it's just the nonsense that it seems.''
So I drift down through the Baker Street valley,

in my steep-sided un-reality.
And when all is said and all is done
I couldn't wish for a better one.
It's a real-life ripe dead certainty
that I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
Talking to the gutter-stinking, winking in the same old way.

I tried to catch my eye but I looked the other way.
Indian restaurants that curry my brain

newspaper warriors changing the names they advertise from the station stand.
Circumcised with cold print hands.
Windy bus-stop. Click. Shop-window. Heel.

Shady gentleman. Fly-button. Feel.
In the underpass, the blind man stands.
With cold flute hands.
Symphony match-seller, breath out of time
you can call me on another line.
Didn't make her

with my Baker Street Ruse.
Couldn't shake her
with my Baker Street Bruise.
Like to take her
but I'm just a Baker Street Muse. (I can't get out!)
Grace
Hello sun.
Hello bird.
Hello my lady.
Hello breakfast.
May I buy you again tomorrow?
M.U. - The Best Of Jethro Tull
Release date: 09. January 1976 (UK)
Ian Anderson -Flute, vocals, soprano saxophone, all tracks
Martin Barre - Electric guitar, all tracks
Glenn Cornick - Bass, tracks 1, 7 and 11
Clive Bunker - Drums, precussion, tracks 1 - 2, 5 - 7 and 11
John Evans - Hammond organ, piano, organ, synthesizer, keyboard, tracks 1 - 5 and 8 10
Jeffrey Hammond-Hammond - Bass, tracks 2, 3, 4, 5, 8, 9, 10
Barriemore Barlow - Drums, percussion, glockenspiel, tracks 3 - 4 and 8 10
A compilation album featured tracks released on earlier albums except Rainbow Blues which
was previously unreleased.
Teacher
Aqualung
Thick As A Brick (Edit #1)
Locomotive Breath
Fat Man
Living In The Past
A Passion Play (Edit #8)
Skating Away (On The Thin Ice Of The New Day)
Rainbow Blues
Nothing Is Easy
Rainbow Blues
Through northern lights on back streets
I told the coachman, "Just drive me on,
It's the same old destination
but a different world to sing upon."
So he threw back his head and he counted.
I jumped out about five to nine.
And I waved at the stage door-keeper

said, "Mister, get me to the stage on time."
Oh, but the rain wasn't made of water

and the snow didn't have a place in the sun
so I slipped behind a rainbow
and waited till the show had done.
I packed my ammunition.
Inside the crowd was shouting, "Encore",
But I had a most funny feeling

it wasn't me they were shouting for.
So when the tall dark lady smiled at me
I said, "Oh, baby let us go for a ride."
And we came upon two drinks or four
and popped them oh so neatly inside.
Oh, but the rain wasn't made of water

and the snow didn't have a place in the sun
so we slipped behind a rainbow
and lay there until we had done.
Let me pack you deep in my suitcase.

Oh, there's sure to be room for two
or you can drive me to the airplane
but don't let me catch those rainbow blues.
Too Old To Rock'N'Roll: Too Young To Die
Release date: 23. April 1976 (UK)
Ian Anderson - Flute, acoustic guitar, harmonica, electric guitar, percussion, vocals
John Glascock - Bass, vocals
John Evans Piano
Guest musicians:
David Palmer - Orchestral arrangements, orchestra conductor, Vako Orchestron, saxophone
solo on "From A Dead Beat To An Old Greaser"
Maddy Prior - Backing vocals on the title track
Angela Allen - Backing vocals on "Crazed Institution" and "Big Dipper"
Quiz Kid
Crazed Institution
Salamander
Taxi Grab
From A Dead Beat To An Old Greaser
Bad Eyed And Loveless
Big Dipper
Too Old To Rock 'N' Roll Too Young To Die
Pied Piper
Chequered Flag (Dead Or Alive)
Small Cigar
Strip Cartoon
Quizz Kid
Cut along the dotted line slip in and seal the flap.
Postal competition crazy, though you wear the dunce's cap.
Win a fortnight in Ibiza line up for the big hand out.
You'll never know unless you try what winning's all about
be a quizz kid. Be a whizz kid.
Six days later there's a rush telegram

Drop everything and telephone this number if you can.
It's a free trip down to London for a weekend of high life.
They'll wine you; dine you; undermine you
better not bring the wife
be a quizz kid. Be a whizz kid.
It's a try out for a quizz show that millions watch each week.
Following the fate and fortunes of contestants as they speak.
Answerable to everyone; responsible to all; publicity dissected
brain cells splattered on the walls of encyclopaedic knowledge.
May be barbaric but it's fun.
As the clock ticks away a lifetime,
hold your head up to the gun of a million cathode ray tubes
aimed at your tiny skull.
May you find sweet inspiration may your memory not be dull.
May you rise to dizzy success.
May your wit be quick and strong.
May you constantly amaze us.
May your answers not be wrong.
May your head be on your shoulders.
May your tongue be in your cheek.
And most of all we pray that you may come back next week!
Be a quizz kid. Be a whizz kid
Crazed Institution
Just a little touch of make-up; just a little touch of bull;
just a little 3-chord trick embedded in your platform soul;
you can wear a gold Piaget on your Semaphore wrist;
you can dance the old adage with a new dapper twist.
And you can ring a crown of roses round your cranium,
live and die upon your cross of platinum.
Join the crazed institution of the stars.
Be the man that you think (know) you really are.
Crawl inside your major triad, curl up and laugh

as your agent scores another front page photograph.
Is it them or is it you throwing dice inside the loo
awaiting someone else to pull the chain.
Well grab the old bog-handle, hold your breath and light a candle.
Clear your throat and pray for rain to irrigate the corridors that echo in
your brain filled with empty nothingness, empty hunger pains.
And you can ring a crown of roses round your cranium,

live and die upon your cross of platinum.
Join the crazed institution of the stars.
Be the man that you think (know) you really are.
Salamander
Salamander
born in the sun-kissed flame.
Who was it lit your candle
branded you with your name?
I see you walking by my window
in your Kensington haze.
Salamander, burn for me
and I'll burn for you.
Taxi Grab
Shake a leg, it's the big rush,
can't find a taxi can't find a bus.
Bodies jammed in the underground
evacuating London town.
Nowhere to put your feet
as the big store shoppers and the pavements meet.
Red lights pin stripes short step shuffle into the night.
Tea time calls the Bingo Halls open at seven in the old front stalls.
How about a Taxi Grab.
There's an empty cab by the taxi stand

driver's in the caf washing his hands.
Big diesel idles the keys inside
c'mon Sally let's take a ride.

Flag down uptown no sweat.
For rush hour travel, it's the best bet yet.
Taxi Grab.
From a Dead Beat to an Old Greaser
From a dead beat to an old greaser, here's thinking of you.
You won't remember the long nights;
coffee bars; black tights and white thighs
in shop windows where blonde assistants fully-fashioned a world made
of dummies (with no mummies or daddies to reject them).
When bombs were banned every Sunday and the Shadows played F.B.I.
And tired young sax-players sold their instruments of torture
sat in the station sharing wet dreams of Charlie Parker,
Jack Kerouac, Ren Magritte, to name a few of the heroes
who were too wise for their own good left the young brood to
go on living without them.
Old queers with young faces who remember your name,

though you're a dead beat with tired feet;
two ends that don't meet.
To a dead beat from an old greaser.
Think you must have me all wrong.

I didn't care, friend. I wasn't there, friend,
If it's the price of pint that you need, ask me again.
Bad-Eyed and Loveless
Yes'n she's bad-eyed and she's loveless.
A young man's fancy and an old man's dream.
I'm self raising and I flower in her company.
Give me no sugar without her cream.
She's a warm fart at Christmas.

She's a breath of champagne on sparkling night.
Turns other women to envious green.
She's a young man's vision in my old man's dream.
Big Dipper
The mist rolls off the beaches,
the train rolls into the station.
Weekend happiness seekers pent-up saturation.
Well, we don't mean anyone any harm,
we weren't on the Glasgow train.
I'll see you at the Pleasure Beach,
roller-coasting heroes.
Big Dipper riding,
we'll give the local lads a hiding,
if they keep us from the ladies,
hanging out in the penny arcades.
Shaking up the Tower Ballroom.
throwing up in the bathroom.
Landlady's in the backroom
Well I'm the Big Dipper
it's the weekend rage.
Rich widowed landlady give me your spare front door key.

If you're 39 or over, I'll make love to you next Thursday.
Well I may stay over for a week or two,
drop a postcard to my mum.
I'll see you on the waltzer
we'll go big-dipping daily.
Big Dipper riding,

we'll give the local lads a hiding,
if they keep us from the ladies,
hanging out in the penny arcades.
Shaking up the Tower Ballroom,
throwing up in the bathroom.
Landlady's in the backroom.
Well I'm the Big Dipper
Big Dipper
it's the weekend...
Big Dipper...
Too Old to Rock 'N' Roll: Too Young to Die
The old Rocker wore his hair too long,
wore his trouser cuffs too tight.
Unfashionable to the end drank his ale too light.
Death's head belt buckle yesterday's dreams
the transport cafe prophet of doom.
Ringing no change in his double-sewn seams
in his post-war-babe gloom.
Now he's too old to Rock'n'Roll but he's too young to die.
He once owned a Harley Davidson and a Triumph Bonneville.

Counted his friends in burned-out spark plugs
and prays that he always will.
But he's the last of the blue blood greaser boys
all of his mates are doing time:
married with three kids up by the ring road
sold their souls straight down the line.
And some of them own little sports cars

and meet at the tennis club do's.
For drinks on a Sunday work on Monday.
They've thrown away their blue suede shoes.
Now they're too old to Rock'n'Roll and they're too young to die.
So the old Rocker gets out his bike

to make a ton before he takes his leave.
Up on the A1 by Scotch Corner
just like it used to be.
And as he flies tears in his eyes
his wind-whipped words echo the final take
and he hits the trunk road doing around 120
with no room left to brake.
And he was too old to Rock'n'Roll but he was too young to die.
No, you're never too old to Rock'n'Roll if you're too young to die.
Pied Piper
Now if you think Ray blew it,
there was nothing to it.
They patched him up as good as new.
You can see him every day
riding down the queen's highway,
handing out his small cigars to the kids from school.
And all the little girls with their bleached blond curls
clump up on their platform soles.
And they say "Hey Ray let's ride away
downtown where we can roll some alley bowls."
And Ray grins from ear to here, and whispers
So follow me. Trail along.

My leather jacket's buttoned up.
And my four-stroke song
will pick you up when your last class ends;
and you can tell all your friends:
The Pied Piper pulled you,
The mad biker fooled you,
I'll do what you want to:
If you ride with me on a Friday
anything goes.
So follow me, hold on tight.

My school girl fancy's flowing in free flight.
I've a tenner in my skin tight jeans.
You can touch it if your hands are clean.
The Pied Piper pulled you,

the mad biker fooled you,
I'll do what you want to:
If you ride with me on a Friday
anything goes.
The Chequered Flag (Dead Or Alive)
The disc brakes drag,
the chequered flag sweeps across the oil-slick track.
The young man's home; dry as a bone.
His helmet off, he waves: the crowd waves back.
One lap victory roll. Gladiator soul.
The taker of the day in winning has to say,
Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand,
dead or alive.
The sunlight streaks through the curtain cracks,

touches the old man where he sleeps.
The nurse brings up a cup of tea
two biscuits and the morning paper mystery.
The hard road's end, the white god's-send
is nearer everyday, in dying the old man says,
dead or alive.
The still-born child can't feel the rain

as the chequered flag falls once again.
The deaf composer completes his final score.
He'll never hear the sweet encore.
The chequered flag, the bull's red rag,
the lemming-hearted hordes
running ever faster to the shore singing,
dead or alive.
Songs From The Wood
Release date: 11. February 1977 (UK)
Ian Anderson - Flute, acoustic guitar, mandolin, whistles, vocals, all instruments on track 2
Martin Barre - Electric guitar, lute
Barriemore Barlow - Drums, marimba, glockenspiel, bells, nacres, tabor
John Glascock - Bass, vocals
John Evans - Piano, organ, synthesizers
David Palmer - Piano, portative organ, synthesizers
Songs From The Wood

Jack-In-The-Green
Cup Of Wonder
Hunting Girl
Ring Out, Solstice Bells
Velvet Green
The Whistler
Pibroch (Cap In Hand)
Fire At Midnight
Songs From The Wood
Let me bring you songs from the wood:
to make you feel much better than you could know.
Dust you down from tip to toe.
Show you how the garden grows.
Hold you steady as you go.
Join the chorus if you can:
it'll make of you an honest man.
Let me bring you love from the field:

poppies red and roses filled with summer rain.
To heal the wound and still the pain
that threatens again and again
as you drag down every lover's lane.
Life's long celebration's here.
I'll toast you all in penny cheer.
Let me bring you all things refined:

galliards and lute songs served in chilling ale.
Greetings well met fellow, hail!
I am the wind to fill your sail.
I am the cross to take your nail:
A singer of these ageless times.
With kitchen prose and gutter rhymes.
Songs from the wood make you feel much better.
Jack-In-The-Green
Have you seen Jack-In-The-Green?
With his long tail hanging down.
He sits quietly under every tree
in the folds of his velvet gown.
He drinks from the empty acorn cup
the dew that dawn sweetly bestows.
And taps his cane upon the ground
signals the snowdrops it's time to grow.
It's no fun being Jack-In-The-Green

no place to dance, no time for song.
He wears the colours of the summer soldier
carries the green flag all the winter long.
Jack, do you never sleep
does the green still run deep in your heart?

Or will these changing times,
motorways, powerlines,
keep us apart?
Well, I don't think so
I saw some grass growing through the pavements today.
The rowan, the oak and the holly tree

are the charges left for you to groom.
Each blade of grass whispers Jack-In-The-Green.
Oh Jack, please help me through my winter's night.
And we are the berries on the holly tree.
Oh, the mistlethrush is coming.
Jack, put out the light.
Cup of Wonder
May I make my fond excuses for the lateness of the hour,
but we accept your invitation, and we bring you Beltane's flower.
For the May Day is the great day, sung along the old straight track.
And those who ancient lines did lay will heed the song that calls them back.
Pass the word and pass the lady, pass the plate to all who hunger.
Pass the wit of ancient wisdom, pass the cup of crimson wonder.
Ask the green man where he comes from, ask the cup that fills with red.
Ask the old grey standing stones that show the sun its way to bed.
Question all as to their ways, and learn the secrets that they hold.
Walk the lines of nature's palm crossed with silver and with gold.
Pass the cup and pass the lady, pass the plate to all who hunger.
Join in black December's sadness, lie in August's welcome corn.

Stir the cup that's ever-filling with the blood of all that's born.
But the May Day is the great day, sung along the old straight track.
And those who ancient lines did lay will heed this song that calls them back.
Pass the word and pass the lady, pass the plate to all who hunger.
Hunting Girl
One day I walked the road and crossed a field to go by where the hounds ran hard.
And on the master raced: behind the hunters chased to where the path was barred.
One fine young lady's horse refused the fence to clear.
I unlocked the gate but she did wait until the pack had disappeared.
Crop handle carved in bone; sat high upon a throne of finest English leather.
The queen of all the pack, this joker raised his hat and talked about the weather.
All should be warned about this high born Hunting Girl.
She took this simple man's downfall in hand; I raised the flag that she unfurled.
Boot leather flashing and spurnecks the size of my thumb.

This highborn hunter had tastes as strange as they come.
Unbridled passion: I took the bit in my teeth.
Her standing over me on my knees underneath.
My lady, be discrete. I must get to my feet and go back to the farm.

Whilst I appreciate you are no deviate, I might come to some harm.
I'm not inclined to acts refined, if that's how it goes.
Oh, high born Hunting Girl, I'm just a normal low born so and so.
Now is the solstice of the year,
winter is the glad song that you hear.
Seven maids move in seven time.
Have the lads up ready in a line.
Ring out these bells.
Ring out, ring solstice bells.
Ring solstice bells.
Join together beneath the mistletoe.

By the holy oak whereon it grows.
Seven druids dance in seven time.
Sing the song the bells call, loudly chiming.
Ring out these bells.
Praise be to the distant sister sun,

joyful as the silver planets run.
Seven maids move in seven time.
Sing the song the bells call, loudly chiming.
Ring out those bells.
Ring on, ring out.
Ring on, ring out.
Velvet Green
Walking on velvet green. Scots pine growing.
Isn't it rare to be taking the air, singing.
Walking on velvet green.
Walking on velvet green. Distant cows lowing.
Never a care: with your legs in the air, loving.
Won't you have my company, yes, take it in your hands.

Go down on velvet green, with a country man.
Who's a young girls fancy and an old maid's dream.
Tell your mother that you walked all night on velvet green.
One dusky half-hour's ride up to the north.
There lies your reputation and all that you're worth.
Where the scent of wild roses turns the milk to cream.
Tell your mother that you walked all night on velvet green.
And the long grass blows in the evening cool.
And August's rare delight may be April's fool.
But think not of that, my love,
I'm tight against the seam.
And I'm growing up to meet you down on velvet green.
Now I may tell you that it's love and not just lust.
And if we live the lie, let's lie in trust.
On golden daffodils, to catch the silver stream
that washes out the wild oat seed on velvet green.
We'll dream as lovers under the stars
of civilizations raging afar.
And the ragged dawn breaks on your battle scars.
As you walk home cold and alone upon velvet green.
Walking on velvet green. Scots pine growing.

Isn't it rare to be taking the air, singing.
Walking on velvet green. Distant cows lowing.
Never a care: with your legs in the air, loving.
The Whistler
I'll buy you six bay mares to put in your stable
six golden apples bought with my pay.
I am the first piper who calls the sweet tune,
but I must be gone by the seventh day.
So come on, I'm the whistler.

I have a fife and a drum to play.
Get ready for the whistler.
I whistle along on the seventh day
whistle along on the seventh day.
All kinds of sadness I've left behind me.

Many's the day when I have done wrong.
But I'll be yours for ever and ever.
Climb in the saddle and whistle along.
So come on, I'm the whistler.

I have a fife and a drum to play.
Get ready for the whistler.
I whistle along on the seventh day
whistle along on the seventh day.
Deep red are the sun-sets in mystical places.

Black are the nights on summer-day sands.
We'll find the speck of truth in each riddle.
Hold the first grain of love in our hands.
Pibroch (Cap in Hand)
There's a light in the house in the wood in the valley.
There's a thought in the head of the man.
Who carries his dreams like the coat slung on his shoulder,
Bringing you love in the cap in his hand.
And each step he takes is one half of a lifetime:

no word he would say could you understand.
So he bundles his regrets into a gesture of sorrow,
Bringing you love cap in hand.
Catching breath as he looks through the dining-room window:

candle lit table for two has been laid.
Strange slippers by the fire.
Strange boots in the hallway.
Put my cap on my head.

I turn and walk away.
Fire at Midnight
I believe in fires at midnight when the dogs have all been fed.
A golden toddy on the mantle a broken gun beneath the bed.
Silken mist outside the window. Frogs and newts slip in the dark
too much hurry ruins the body. I'll sit easy, fan the spark
kindled by the dying embers of another working day.
Go upstairs, take off your makeup fold your clothes neatly away.
Me, I'll sit and write this love song as I all too seldom do
build a little fire this midnight. It's good to be back home with you.
Heavy Horses
Ian Anderson - Flute, acoustic guitar, electric guitar, mandolin, vocals
John Glascock - Bass
David Palmer - Portative organ, keyboards, orchestral arrangements
...And The Mouse Police Never Sleeps

Acres Wild
No Lullaby
Moths
Journeyman
Rover
One Brown Mouse
Heavy Horses
Weathercock
...And The Mouse Police Never Sleeps
Muscled, black with steel-green eye
swishing through the rye grass
with thoughts of mouse-and-apple pie.
Tail balancing at half-mast.
...And the mouse police never sleeps
lying in the cherry tree.
Savage bed foot-warmer of purest feline ancestry.
Look out, little furry folk!
He's the all-night working cat.
Eats but one in every ten
leaves the others on the mat.
...And the mouse police never sleeps
waiting by the cellar door.
Window-box town crier;
birth and death registrar.
With claws that rake a furrow red
licensed to multilate.
From warm milk on a lazy day
to dawn patrol on hungry hate.
...No, the mouse police never sleeps
climbing on the ivy.
Windy roof-top weathercock.
Warm-blooded night on a cold tile.
Acres Wild
I'll make love to you
in all good places
under black mountains
in open spaces.
By deep brown rivers
that slither darkly
through far marches
where the blue hare races.
Come with me to the Winged Isle

northern father's western child.
Where the dance of ages is playing still
through far marches of acres wild.
I'll make love to you

in narrow side streets
with shuttered windows,
crumbling chimneys.
Come with me to the weary town

discos silent under tiles
that slide from roof-tops, scatter softly
on concrete marches of acres wild.
By red bricks pointed

with cement fingers
Flaking damply from sagging shoulders.
Come with me to the Winged Isle

northern father's western child.
Where the dance of ages is playing still
through far marches of acres wild.
No Lullaby
Keep your eyes open and prick up your ears
rehearse your loudest cry.
There's folk out there who would do you harm
so I'll sing you no lullaby.
There's a lock on the window; there's a chain on the door:
a big dog in the hall.
But there's dragons and beasties out there in the night
to snatch you if you fall.
So come out fighting with your rattle in hand.

Thrust and parry. Light
a match to catch the devil's eye. Bring
a cross of fire to the fight.
And let no sleep bring false relief

from the tension of the fray.
Come wake the dead with the scream of life.
Do battle with ghosts at play.
Gather your toys at the call-to-arms

and swing your big bear down.
Upon our necks when we come to set
you sleeping safe and sound.
It's as well we tell no lie

to chase the face that cries.
And little birds can't fly
so keep an open eye.
It's as well we tell no lie
so I'll sing you no lullaby.
Moths
The leaded window opened
to move the dancing candle flame
And the first Moths of summer
suicidal came, suicidal came.
And a new breeze chattered
in its May-bud tenderness,
Sending water-lillies sailing
as she turned to get undressed.
And the long night awakened
and we soared on powdered wings,
Circling our tomorrows
in the wary month of Spring.
Chasing shadows slipping
in a magic lantern slide,
Creatures of the candle
on a night-light-ride.
Dipping and weaving
Flutter through the golden needle's eye
in our haystack madness.
Butterfly-stroking on a Spring-tide high.
Life's too long (as the Lemming said)
as the candle burned and the Moths were wed.
And we'll all burn together as the wick grows higher
but before the candle's dead.
The leaded window opened
to move the dancing candle flame.
And the first moths of summer
suicidal came, oh, suicidal came.
To join in the worship
of the light that never dies
in a moment's reflection
of two moths spinning in her eyes.
Journeyman
Spine-tingling railway sleepers
Sleepy houses lying four-square and firm
Orange beams divide the darkness
Rumbling fit to turn the waking worm.
Sliding through Victorian tunnels
where green moss oozes from the pores.
Dull echoes from the wet embankments
Battlefield allotments. Fresh open sores.
In late night commuter madness

Double-locked black briefcase on the floor
like a faithful dog with master
sleeping in the draught beside the carriage door.
To each Journeyman his own home-coming
Cold supper nearing with each station stop
Frosty flakes on empty platforms
Fireside slippers waiting. Flip. Flop.
Journeyman night-tripping on the late fantasic

Too late to stop for tea at Gerard's Cross
and hear the soft shoes on the footbridge shuffle
as the wheels turn biting on the midnight frost.
On the late commuter special
Carriage lights that flicker, fade and die
Howling into hollow blackness
Dusky diesel shudders in full cry.
Down redundant morning papers
Abandon crosswords with a cough
Stationmaster in his wisdom
told the guard to turn the heating off.
Rover
I chase your every footstep
and I follow every whim.
When you call the tune I'm ready
to strike up the battle hymn.
My lady of the meadows
My comber of the beach
You've thrown the stick for your dog's trick
but it's floating out of reach.
The long road is a rainbow and the pot of gold lies there.
So slip the chain and I'm off again
You'll find me everywhere. I'm a Rover.
As the robin craves the summer

to hide his smock of red,
I need the pillow of your hair
in which to hide my head.
I'm simple in my sadness,
resourceful in remorse.
Then I'm down straining at the lead
holding on a windward course.
Strip me from the bundle

of balloons at every fair:
colourful and carefree
Designed to make you stare.
But I'm lost and I'm losing
the thread that holds me down.
And I'm up hot and rising
in the lights of every town.
One Brown Mouse
Smile your little smile take some tea with me awhile.
Brush away that black cloud from your shoulder.
Twitch your whiskers. Feel that you're really real.
Another tea-time another day older.
Puff warm breath on your tiny hands.

You wish you were a man
who every day can turn another page.
Behind your glass you sit and look
at my ever-open book:
One brown mouse sitting in a cage.
Do you wonder if I really care for you,

Am I just the company you keep?
Which one of us exercises on the old treadmill,
Who hides his head, pretending to sleep?
Smile your little smile take some tea with me awhile.

And every day we'll turn another page.
Behind our glass we'll sit and look
at our ever-open book:
One brown mouse sitting in a cage.
Heavy Horses
Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust,
An October's day, towards evening,
Sweat embossed veins standing proud to the plough,
Salt on a deep chest seasoning.

Last of the line at an honest day's toil,
Turning the deep sod under,
Flint at the fetlock, chasing the bone,
Flies at the nostrils plunder.
The Suffolk, the Clydesdale, the Percheron Vie

with the Shire on his feathers floating.
Hauling soft timber into the dusk
to bed on a warm straw coating.
Heavy Horses, move the land under me.

Behind the plough gliding slipping and sliding free.
Now you're down to the few
And there's no work to do:
The tractor's on its way.
Let me find you a filly for your proud stallion seed

to keep the old line going.
And we'll stand you abreast at the back of the wood
behind the young trees growing.
To hide you from eyes that mock at your girth,
and your eighteen hands at the shoulder.
And one day when the oil barons have all dripped dry
and the nights are seen to draw colder
they'll beg for your strength, your gentle power
your noble grace and your bearing.
And you'll strain once again to the sound of the gulls
in the wake of the deep plough, sharing.
Standing like tanks on the brow of the hill

Up into the cold wind facing
In stiff battle harness, chained to the world
Against the low sun racing.
Bring me a wheel of oaken wood
A rein of polished leather
A Heavy Horse and a tumbling sky
Brewing heavy weather.
Bring a song for the evening

Clean brass to flash the dawn
across these acres glistening
like dew on a carpet lawn.
In these dark towns folk lie sleeping
as the heavy horses thunder by
to wake the dying city
with the living horseman's cry.
At once the old hands quicken,

bring pick and wisp and curry comb,
thrill to the sound of all
the heavy horses coming home.
Weathercock
Good morning Weathercock:
How did you fare last night?
Did the cold wind bite you,
did you face up to the fright
When the leaves spin from October
and whip around your tail?
Did you shake from the blast,
did you shiver through the gale?
Give us direction; the best of goodwill,

Put us in touch with fair winds.
Sing to us softly, hum evening's song.
Tell us what the blacksmith has done for you.
Do you simply reflect changes

in the patterns of the sky,
Or is it true to say the weather heeds
the twinkle in your eye?
Do you fight the rush of winter;
do you hold snowflakes at bay?
Do you lift the dawn sun from the fields
and help him on his way?
Good morning Weathercock: make this day bright.

Put us in touch with your fair winds.
Sing to us softly, hum evening's song.
Point the way to better days we can share with you.
Stormwatch
Ian Anderson - Flute, acoustic guitar, bass, vocals
Martin Barre - Electric guitar, mandolin, classical guitar
John Glascock - Bass, vocals, tracks 2, 9 and 10
David Palmer - Synthesizers, portative organ, orchestral arrangements
Francis Wilson - Spoken word on Dun Ringill
North Sea Oil

Orion
Home
Dark Ages
Warm Sporran (instrumental)
Something's On The Move
Old Ghosts
Dun Ringill
Flying Dutchman
Elegy (instrumental)
North Sea Oil
Black and viscous bound to cure blue lethargy.
Sugar-plum petroleum for energy.
Tightrope-balanced payments need a small reprieve
Oh, please believe we want to be
in North Sea
in North Sea Oil.
New-found wealth sits on the shelf of yesterday.

Hot-air balloon inflation soon will make you pay.
Riggers rig and diggers dig their shallow grave.
But we'll be saved and what we crave
is North Sea
is North Sea Oil.
Prices boom in Aberdeen and London Town.

Ten more years to lay the fears, erase the frown.
Before we are all nuclear the better way!
Oh, let us pray: we want to stay
in North Sea
in North Sea
in North Sea Oil.
Orion
Orion, won't you give me your star sign.
Orion, get up on the sky-line.
I'm high on my hill and I feel fine.
Orion, let's sip the heaven's heady wine.
Orion, light your lights:

come guard the open spaces
from the black horizon to the pillow where I lie.
Your faithful dog shines brighter than its lord and master.
Your jewelled sword twinkles as the world rolls by.
So come up singing above the cloudy cover
stare through at people who toss fitful in their sleep.
I know you're watching as the old gent by the station
scuffs his toes on old fag packets lying in the street.
Orion, won't you give me your star sign.

I'm high on my hill and I feel fine.
And silver shadows flick across the closing bistro.

Sweet waiters link their arms and patter down the street,
their words lost blowing on cold winds in darkest Chelsea.
Prime years fly fading with each young heart's beat.
Orion, won't you make me a star sign.

I'm high on your love and I feel fine.
And young girls shiver as they wait by lonely bus-stops

after sad parties: no-one to take them home
to greasy bed-sitters and make a late-night play
for lost virginity a thousand miles away.
Orion, won't you make me a star sign.

I'm high on your love and I feel fine.
Home
As the dawn sun breaks over sleepy gardens
I'll be here to do all things to comfort you.
And though I've been away
left you alone this way
why don't you come awake
and let your first smile take me home.
The shadows in the park were longer yesterday
and Lady Luck stood still, waiting for the kill.
And on a jumbo ride
over seas grey, deep and wide
I flew for heaven's sake
and let the angels take me home.
Down steep and narrow lanes I see the chimneys smoking
above the golden fields know what the robin feels
in his summer jamboree.
All elements agree
in sweet and stormy blend
midwife to winds that send me home.
Dark Ages
Darlings are you ready for the long winter's fall?
Said the lady in her parlor
said the butler in the hall.
Is there time for another?
Cried the drunkard in his sleep.
Not likely said the little child.
What's done the Lord can keep.
And the vicar stands a-praying.
And the television dies
as the white dot flickers and is gone
and no-one stops to cry.
Dark Ages
shaking the dead
Closed pages
better not read
Cold rages
burn in your head.
The big jet rumbles over runway miles

that scar the patchwork green
where slick tycoons and rich buffoons
have opened up the seam
of golden nights and champagne flights
ad-man overkill
and in the haze
consumer crazed
we take the sugar pill.
Dark Ages
shaking the dead
Closed pages
better not read
Cold rages
burn in your head.
Jagged fires mark the picket lines

the politicians weep
and mealy-mouthed down corridors of power on tip-toe creep.
Come and see bureaucracy
make its final heave
and let the new disorder through
while senses take their leave.
Dark Ages
shaking the dead
Closed pages
better not read
Cold rages
burn in your head.
Families screaming line the streets

and put the windows through
in corner shops
where keepers kept
the country's life-blood blue.
Take their pick
and try the trick
with loaves and fishes shared
and the vicar shouts
as the lights go out,
and no-one really cares.
Dark Ages
shaking the dead
Closed pages
better not read
Cold rages
burn in your head.
Darlings are you ready for the long winter's fall?

Said the lady in her parlor
said the butler in the hall.
Dark Ages
shaking the dead
Closed pages
better not read
Cold rages
burn in your head.
Something's On The Move
She wore a black tiara
rare gems upon her fingers
and she came from distant waters
where northern lights explode
to celebrate the dawning
of the new wastes of winter
gathering royal momentum

on the icy road.
With chill mists swirling
like petticoats in motion
sighted on horizons
for ten thousand years
the lady of the ice sounds
a deathly distant rumble
to Titanic-breaking children lost
in melting crystal tears.
Capturing black pieces
in a glass-fronted museum
the white queen rolls
on the chessboard of the dawn
squeezing through the valleys
pausing briefly in the corries
the Ice-Mother mates
and a new age is born.
Driving all before her
un-stoppable, un-straining
her cold creaking mass
follows reindeer down.
Thin spreading fingers seek
to embrace the sill-warm bundles
that huddle on the doorsteps
of a white London Town.
Oh, sunshine take me now away from here
I'm a needle on a spiral in a groove.
And the turntable spins
as the last waltz begins
And the weather-man says
something's on the move.
Old Ghosts
Hair stands high on the cat's back like
a ridge of threatening hills.
Sheepdogs howl, make tracks and growl
their tails hanging low.
And young children falter in their games
at the altar of life's hide-and-seek
between tall pillars, where Sunday-night killers
in grey raincoats peek.
Misty colours unfold a backcloth cold

fine tapestry of silk
I draw around me like a cloak

and soundless glide a-drifting
on eddies whirled in beech leaves furled
brown and gold they fly
in the warm mesh of sunlight
sifting now from a cloudless sky.
I'll be coming again like an old dog in pain

Blown through the eye of the hurricane
Down to the stones where old ghosts play.
Dun Ringill
Spoken Intro:
(Lines join in faint discord and the stormwatch brews
a concert of kings as the white sea snaps
at the heels of a soft prayer
whispered.....)
Clear light on a slick palm

as I mis-deal the day.
Slip the night from a shaved pack
make a marked card play.
Call twilight hours down
from a heaven home
high above the highest bidder
for the good Lord's throne.
In the wee hours I'll meet you

down by Dun Ringill.
Oh, and we'll watch the old gods play
by Dun Ringill, by Dun Ringill.
We'll wait in stone circles

'til the force comes through.
Lines join in faint discord
and the stormwatch brews
a concert of kings
as the white sea snaps
at the heels of a soft prayer
whispered.
In the wee hours I'll meet you

down by Dun Ringill.
Oh, and I'll take you quickly
by Dun Ringill,
by Dun Ringill,
by Dun Ringill.
Flying Dutchman
Old lady with a barrow; life near ending
Standing by the harbour wall; warm wishes sending
children on the cold sea swell
not fishers of men
gone to chase away the last herring:
come empty home again.
So come all you lovers of the good life

on your supermarket run
Set a sail of your own devising
and be there when the Dutchman comes.
Wee girl in a straw hat: from far east warring
Sad cargo of an old ship: young bodies whoring
Slow ocean hobo ports closed to her crew
No hope of immigration keep on passing through.
your children playing in the sun
set a sympathetic flag a-flying
and be there when the Dutchman comes.
Death grinning like a scarecrow Flying Dutchman

Seagull pilots flown from nowhere try and touch one
as she slips in on the full tide
and the harbour-master yells
All hands vanished with the captain
no one left, the tale to tell.

Look around you, can you see?
Staring ghostly in the mirror
it's the Dutchman you will be
floating slowly out to sea
in a misty misery.
A
Release date: 29. August 1980 (UK)
Ian Anderson - Flute, vocals
Mark Craney - Drums
Dave Pegg - Bass
Crossfire
Fylingdale Flyer
Working John, Working Joe
Black Sunday
Protect and Survive
Batteries Not Included
Uniform
4.W.D. (Low Ratio)
The Pine Marten's Jig (Instrumental)
And Further On
Crossfire
Spring light in a hazy May
and a man with a gun at the door
Someone's crawling on the roof above
all the media here for the show
I've been waiting for our friends to come
Like spiders down ropes to free-fall
A thirty round clip for a visiting card
admit one to the embassy ball
Caught in the crossfire on Princes Gate Avenue

In go the windows and out go the lights
Call me a doctor. Fetch me a policeman
I'm down on the floor in one hell of a fight
I'm just a soul with an innocent face

a regular boy dressed in blue
conducting myself in a proper way
as befitting the job that I do
They came down on me like a ton of bricks
Swept off my feet, knocked about
There's nothing for it but to sit and wait
for the hard men to get me out
Calm reason floats from the street below

and the slow fuse burns through the night
Everyone's tried to talk it through
but they can't seem to get the deal right
Somewhere there are Brownings in a two-hand hold
cocked and locked, one up the spout
There's nothing for it but to sit and wait
for the hard men to get me out
Fylingdale Flyer
Through clear skies tracking lightly from far down the line
No fanfare, just a blip on the screen
No quick conclusions now
everything will be fine
Short-circuit glitsch and not what it seems
Fylingdale Flyer
you're only half way there
Green screen liar
for a second or so we were running scared
On late shift, feeling drowsy eyes glued to the display

Dead cert alert, lit match to the straw
One last quick game of bowls
we can still win the day
Fail-safe; forget the things that you saw
They checked the systems through and they read A-o.k.

Some tiny fuse has probably blown
Sit back; relax and soon it will just go away
Keep your hands off that red telephone
Working John, Working Joe
When I was a young man (as all good tales begin)
I was taught to hold out my hand
And for my pay I worked an honest day
and took what pittance I could win
Now I'm a working John and I'm a working Joe
and I'm doing what I know
for God and the Economy
Big brother watches over me
And the state protects and feeds me
And my conscience never leaves me
And I'm loyal to the unions
who protect me at all levels
And as I grew, the winds of fortune blew

and the bank smiled down upon me
And mortgaged to the hilt I threw
the breeze of caution behind me
Now I'm a working John and I'm a working Joe
and I'm good at what I know
And God and the Economy
have blessed me with equality
Now I'm equal to the best of you
And better than the rest of you
who would criticise my success
in times of national unrest
Now I own my horseless carriage

in its central-heated garage
And I commute eighty miles a day
up at seven to make it pay
I direct ten limited companies
with seeming consummate expertise
two ulcers and a heart disease
a trembling feeling in both knees
I'm a working John and I'm a working Joe
Black Sunday
Tomorrow is the one day I would change for a Monday
with freezing rains melting and no trains running
and sad eyes passing in windows flimsy
and my seat rocking from legs not quite matching
Got passport, credit cards, a plane that I'm catching
Black Sunday falls one day too soon
The taxi that takes me will be moving too quickly

My suitcases simply too full for the closing
of pants, shirts and kisses all packed in a hurry
Two best-selling paper backs chosen at random
no sign of sales-persons to whom I might hand them
And down at the airport are probably waiting

a few thousand passengers, overbooked seating
Time long suspended in transit-lounge traumas
connections broken and Special Branch waiting
conspicuously standing in holiday clothing
Pick up my feet and kick off my lethargy

Down to the gate with the old mood upon me
Get out and chase the small immortality
born in the minute of my next returning
Impatient feet tapping and cigarette burning
Homecoming one day too soon
And back at the house there's a grey sky a-tumbling

Milk bottles piling on door steps a-crumbling
Curtains all drawn and cold water plumbing
Notepaper scribbles I read unbelieving
Saying how sorry, how sad was the leaving
...one day too soon
Protect And Survive
They said protect and you'll survive
(but our postman didn't call)
8lbs. of over-pressure wave seemed to glue him to the wall
E.M.P. took out the radio

(and our milk-man didn't call)
Flash blinded by the pretty lights,
didn't see his bottles fall
or feel the warm black rain arrive
Big friendly cloud builds in the West

(and our dust-men haven't called)
They left the dual carriageway at a hundred miles an hour
a tail wind chasing them away
And in deep shelters lurk below, sub-regional control

who sympathise but cannot help
to mend your body or your soul
Self-appointed guadians of the race with egg upon their face
When steady sirens sing all-clear they pop up,
find nobody here
And so I watch two new suns spin

(our paper man doesn't call)
Burnt shadow printed on the road
now there's nothing there at all
Batteries Not Included
Six o'clock in the morning
Wake up by the bed
There sits a Japanese toy
And I like it
See the name on the wrapping
Can't read yet but I know
it's made for me (lucky boy)
And I want it
Lights that flash, wheels that go round
Digital display
Fresh silicon chips to enjoy
And I need them
(Where's the batteries?)
Sitting silent and empty
Wish I could breathe life
in my new friend who's terribly still
And I like him
Just like me. P'rhaps he's hungry.
Six volts make him smile
And twelve volts would probably kill
How I like him
Daddy, where's the batteries
I can't find my batteries
(There's no batteries)
Seven o'clock in the morning
They find me by the bed
with my friend the Japanese toy
I am with him
Mummy, Daddy
can't see you,
hear you. Batteries not
included in this little boy
(Where's my batteries?)
Uniform
See black, see yellow with little notebooks drawn
See grey stripes bowling down the street
Silver streaks and T-shirts so precisely torn
Strange foreign chaps in white bed-sheets
Uniforms
See golden halo'd men of high renown

prance to the politicians' beat
Well tailored in unswerving elegance
with shoes by Gucci on their feet
Uniforms
How do you know who the hell you are?

Wake up each day under a different star
Dressed to the nines, meet yourself going home
like a clone, smartly dressed in your pressed uniform
White battle dress on green pitch, proud eleven

Beneath the swelling box so neat
the teeming millions of the future fly
the spinning cricket ball to cheat
They're all uniform
4.W.D. (Low Ratio)
Met a man just the other day
said his name was Jim. Boy, won't you take a look!
Got a car for you
it's a real steal
Cleaned it right down
new brakes, clutch and here's the hook
Yes, it's a 4.W.D. (low ratio)
Cash to Jim. I took it home

through the deep mud. Plugged happy as a boy in sand
Fitted wide tyres, spotlight, a winch as well
and some brush bars up front to complete the plan
Now it's really a 4.W.D. (low ratio)
Take you down to the edge of town

Where the road stops, we start to hold the ground
Well, I'm blessed! Got traction in a special way
Hold the roll bar, slide back, feel me pull it round
Let me show you my 4.W.D. (low ratio)
The Pine Marten's Jig
[Instrumental]
And Further On
We saw the heavens break and all the world go down to sleep
and rocks on mossy banks drip acid rain from craggy steeps
Saw fiery angels kiss the dawn
Wish you goodbye till further on
Will you still be there further on?
And troubled dynasties, like legions lost, have blown away

Hounds hard upon their heels call to their quarry
wait and play
Before the last faint light has gone
Wish you goodbye till further on
The angry waves grow high

cut icy teeth on northern shores
Brave fires that flicker, cough
give way to winds
through broken doors
And with the last line almost drawn
wish you goodbye till further on
The Broadsword And The Beast
Ian Anderson - Flute, acoustic guitar, vocals
Martin Barre - Electric guitar, acoustic guitar
Gerry Conway - Drums, percussion
Dave Pegg - Bass, mandolins, vocals
Peter-John Vettese - Piano, synthesizer
Beastie
Clasp
Fallen On Hard Times
Flying Colours
Slow Marching Band
Broadsword
Pussy Willow
Watching Me Watching You
Seal Driver
Cheerio
Beastie
From early days of infancy, through trembling years of youth,
long murky middle-age and final hours long in the tooth,
he's the hundred names of terror - creature you love the least.
Picture his name before you and exorcise the beast.
He roved up and down through history - spectre with tales to tell.

In the darkness when the campfire's dead - to each his private hell.
If you look behind your shoulder as you feel his eyes to feast,
you can witness now the everchanging nature of the beast.
Beastie!
If you wear a warmer sporran, you can keep the foe at bay.
You can pop those pills and visit some psychiatrist who'll say:
There is nothing I can do for you, everywhere's a danger zone.
I'd love to help get rid of it, but I've got one of my own.
Beastie!
There's a beast upon my shoulder, (Beastie!)

and a fiend upon my back. (Beastie!)
Feel his burning breath a heaving, (Beastie!)
smoke oozing from his stack.
And he moves beneath the covers, (Beastie!)

or he lies below the bed. (Beastie!)
He's the beast upon your shoulder. (Beastie!)
He's the price upon your head.
He's the lonely fear of dying, and for some, of living too.
He's your private nightmare pricking.
He'd just love to turn the screw.
So stand as one defiant - yes, and let your voices swell.
Stare that beastie in the face and really give him hell.
Beastie!
There's a beast upon my shoulder, (Beastie!)

and a fiend upon my back. (Beastie!)
Feel his burning breath a heaving, (Beastie!)
smoke oozing from his stack. (Beastie!)
And he moves beneath the covers, (Beastie!)
or he lies below the bed. (Beastie!)
He's the beast upon your shoulder. (Beastie!)
He's the price upon your head.
Look out! Look out!

The Clasp
we travellers on the endless wastes in single orbits,
gliding cold-eyed march towards the dawn behind
hard-weather hoods a-hiding.
Meeting as the tall ships do, passing in the channel
afraid to chance a gentle touch,
afraid to make the clasp.
In high-rise city canyons dwells the discontent of ages.

On ring roads, nose to bumper crawl
commuters in their cages. Cryptic signals flash
across from pilots in the fast lane. Double-locked
and belted in - too late to make the clasp.
Let's break the journey now on some lonely road.

Sit down as strangers will, let the stress unload.
Talk in confidential terms, share a dark unspoken fear.
Refill the cup and drink it up. Say goodnight and
wish good luck.
Synthetic chiefs with frozen smiles holding unsteady courses.

Grip the reins of history, high on their battle horses.
And meeting as good statesmen do before the T.V.
eyes of millions, hand to hand exchange the lie -
pretend to make the clasp.
Fallen On Hard Times
Fallen on hard times - but it feels good to know
that milk and honey's just around the bend.
Running on bad lines - we'd better run as we go,
Tear up, tear up the overdraft again.
Oh, dear Prime Minister - it's all such a mess.

Go right ahead and pull the rotten tooth.
Oh, Mr. President - you've been put to the test.
Come clean, for once, and hit us with the truth.
Looking for sunshine - oh but it's black and it's cold

Yet, you say that milk and honey's just round the bend.
Giving us a hard time, my friends
handing us the same line again.
Fallen on hard times - and there's nowhere to hide

Now they've re-possessed the Rolls Royce and the mink.
Turning on the peace sign - and it's back to the wood.

Soon there will be raised a holy stink.
Somebody wake me. I've been sleeping too long.

Oh, I don't have to take this lying down.
You can keep your promises. Shove 'em where they belong.
Don't ask me to the party - won't be around.
Flying Colours
Shout if you will, but that just won't do.
I, for one, would rather follow softer options.
I'll take the easy line; another sip of wine,
and if I ignore the face you wore it's just a way of
mine to keep from flying colours.
Don't lay your bait while the whole world waits

around to see me shoot you down - It's all so second-rate.
When we can last for days on a loving night;
or for hours at least on a warm whisper given.
You always pick the best time to rise to the fight.
To break the hard bargain that we've driven.
Once again we're flying colours.
I thought we had it out the night before,

and settled old scores, but not the hard way.
Was it a glass too much? Or a smile too few?
Did our friends all catch the needle match - did we
want them to?
In a fancy restaurant we were all aglow
keeping cool by mutual permission.
How did the conversation get to where we came to blows?
We were set up in a red condition
and again we're flying colours.
Shout - but you see it still won't do.

With my colours on I can be just as bad as you.
Have I had a glass too much? Did I give a smile too few?
Did our friends all catch the needle match - did we
want them to?
We act our parts so well, like we wrote the play.
All so predictable and we know it.
We'll settle old scores now, and settle the hard way.
You may not even live to outgrow it!
Once again we're flying colours.
Slow Marching Band
Would you join a slow marching band?
And take pleasure in your leaving
as the ferry sails and tears are dried
and cows come home at evening.
Could you get behind a slow marching band?

And join together in the passing
of all we shared through yesterdays
in sorrows neverlasting.
Take a hand and take a bow.

You played for me; that's all for now, oh, and never
mind the words just hum along and keep on going.
Walk on slowly - don't look behind you.
Don't say goodbye, love. I won't remind you.
Dream of me as the nights draw cold

still marking time through Winter.
You paid the piper and called the tune
and you marched the band away.
Take a hand and take a bow.

You played for me; that's all for now, oh, and never
mind the words just hum along and keep on going.
Walk on slowly - don't look behind you.
Don't say goodbye, love. I won't remind you.
Broadsword
I see a dark sail on the horizon set under a black
cloud that hides the sun.
Bring me my broadsword and clear understanding.

Bring me my cross of gold as a talisman.
Get up to the roundhouse on the cliff-top standing.
Take women and children and bed them down.
Bring me my broadsword and clear understanding.

Bring me my cross of gold as a talisman.
Bless with a hard heart those who surround me.
Bless the women and children who firm our hands.
Put our backs to the north wind. Hold fast by the river.
Sweet memories to drive us on for the motherland.
Pussy Willow
In the half-tone light of a young morning
she sighs and shifts on the pillow.
And across her face dancing, the first shadows fly
to kiss the Pussy Willow.
In her fairy-tale world she's a lost soul singing

in a sad voice nobody hears.
She waits in her castle of make-believing
for her white knight to appear.
Pussy Willow - down fur-lined avenue

brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.
Runs for the train - see, eight o'clock's coming
cutting dreams down to size again.

Runs from the train. Hear her typewriter humming
She longs for the East and a pale dress flowing

an apartment in old Mayfair.
Or to fish the Spey, spinning the first run of Spring
or to die for a cause somewhere.

Runs from the train. Hear her typewriter humming
Watching Me Watching You
I sit by the cutting on the Beaconsfield line.
He's watching me watching the trains go by.
And they move so fast - boy, they really fly.
He's still watching me watching you watching the
trains go by.
And the way he stares - feel like locking my door

and pulling my phone from the wall.
His eyes, like lights from a laser, burn
making my hair stand - making the goose-bumps crawl.
He's watching me watching you watching him

watching me
I'm watching you watching him watching me
watching Stares.
At the cocktail party with a Bucks Fizz in my hand

I feel him watching me watching the girls go by.
And they move so smooth without even trying.
He's still watching me watching you watching the
trains go by.
And the crowd thins and he moves up close but he doesn't speak.
I have to look the other way.
But curiosity gets the better part of me and I peek:
Got two drinks in his hand - see his lips move -
what the hell's he trying to say.

watching me.
I'm watching you watching him watching me
watching Stares.
watching me.
He's watching me watching you watching
the trains go by.
watching me.
He's watching me watching you watching him watching me.
He's watching me watching you watching him watching me watching him watching.
Seal Driver
Take you away for my magic ship.
I have two hundred deisel horses thundering loud.
Sea birds call your name and the mountain's on fire
as the summer lightening cuts the sky like a hot wire.
And you ride on the swell and your heart is alive,
think I'll make you my seal driver.
I'm no great looker, I'm no fast shakes.

I'll give you a steady push on a six knot simmering high tide.
I can hold us down - keep our head to the wind,
or let us roll on the broadside, cold spray flying in,
and we'll ride on the swell and our hearts are alive.
Let me make you my seal driver.
I could captain you if you'd crew for me

follow white flecked spindrift - float on a moonkissed sea.
Could you fancy me as a pirate bold,

or a longship Viking warrior with the old gods on his side?
Well I'm an inshore man and I'm nobody's hero,
but I'll make you tight for a windy night and a dark ride.
Let me take you in hand and bring you alive.
Going to make you my seal driver.
Cheerio
Along the coast road, by the headland
the early lights of winter glow.
I'll pour a cup to you my darling.
Raise it up - say Cheerio.
Under Wraps
Ian Anderson - Flute, acoustic guitar, vocals
Dave Pegg - Bass
Peter-John Vettese Keyboards
Lap Of Luxury
Under Wraps #1
European Legacy
Later, That Same Evening
Saboteur
Radio Free Moscow
Astronomy
Tundra
Nobody's Car
Heat
Under Wraps #2
Paparazzi
Apogee
Automotive Engineering
General Crossing
Lap Of Luxury
The money won't last forever
rent man called twice today.
I hope some day you'll find me
in the lap of luxury.
Searched for a new apartment

but they don't grow on trees.
Just want to lay my head
in the lap of luxury.
Stepped out on a new horizon

felt a new spring in my feet.
Found a job, it could set me up
dangling in the lap of luxury.
And the gaffer is a man of substance

drives a jag and takes high tea.
Lives beyond the industrial wasteland,
laughing in the lap of luxury.
I need money, now, to soothe my heart!
Buy me a Datsun or Toyota

get the tax man to agree
all expenses I can muster
from the lap of luxury.
Under Wraps
Keep it quiet. (Go slow.)
Circulate. Need to know.
Stamp the date upon your file
masquerade, but well worth while.
Wrapped in the warmth of you
wrapped up in your smile.
Wrapped in the folds of your attention.
Wear an air (keep mum)

of casual indifference.
Careful how you go

about your usual business.
Wrapped in daydreams of you

wrapped up by your eyes.
Under wraps! I've got you under wraps.
Tell you when (not yet)

soon the great unveiling.
Bless my boots! Upon my soul!
Secrecy, it is my failing.
Wrapped in your Summer night
wrapped in your Autumn leaves.
Wrapped in the Winter of your sleeping.
European Legacy
She smiles at me from beyond the eastern sea-shore.
Flashing jewelled eyes, she hoists her skirts so high.
Nouvelle cuisine or an oyster bar it's really up to her.
I'll write every cheque she brings to me.
I shoot on sight it's my European legacy.
Round the castle walls about the Highlands and the Islands
the faint reminders stand. Visitors who took a hand
a thousand years ago, or so stranded high and dry by tides
washed up a new identity.
The channel's wide but it's their European legacy.
I strain my eyes against the southern light advancing.

On whiter cliffs I'm high. The sea birds roll and tumble as they fly.
I hear distant mainland music echo in my island ears.
My feet begin to move instinctively

to the warmer beat of my European legacy.
She smiles at me from beyond the eastern sea-shore.

Flashing jewelled eyes, she hoists her skirts so high.
Nouvelle cuisine or an oyster bar it's really up to her.
I'll write every cheque she brings to me.
She shoots on sight it's her European legacy.
Later, That Same Evening
Later, that same evening, she ran.
I think she ran alone.
Later, she had early warning from
a hidden phone.
Checked with the embassy
she might have been
a million miles away.
Should I circulate her likeness
at all airports without delay?
It was later later that same evening.
Earlier, we had had a drink or four

in some Kensington hotel.
Hard it was hard to keep my mind
on what she had to sell.
And with all business done
we took a cab
should it be her place or mine?
Good security prevailed
and I was home just after nine.
It was later later that same evening.
Now I want you back.

Yes, they want you back.
We want you back.
My country wants you back.
Later, in the wee small hours

there was heavy traffic on the radio.
Scare at a channel port

small craft warnings to keep to shore.
Lobstermen thought they saw
a submarine
half submerged suspiciously.
Though I arrived too late,
I'm sure she blew a kiss to me
as the sub sailed out to sea.
Saboteur
In and out of shady places
walking on cold corners of the maze.
Following the trace you leave unwittingly.

I wanna be no Saboteur.
Oh, no, me no Saboteur.
Painted ducks across your landscape

happy in your domesticity (it don't come free).
Misfortune, like a Sparrow Hawk, hangs over you.
Wanna be no Saboteur.
No, no, me no Saboteur.
Deepest regrets I humbly offer you

as I cut into your life.
With clean precision, all is simplified
pass the hat and pass the knife.
By now you must be worried, wondering

who is me and what lies behind my art.
I'm only removing broken sea-shells from the beach
oh, no, me no Saboteur.
There's at least one of me inside your ranks

in your factory or school.
I anticipate a cleansing opportunity
to take the horns by the bull.
History forever writing

pages to be cut or painted grey,
or celebrated like Jesus in his
temple rage
as he chased the money-men away.
I wanna be no Saboteur.
Be no, be no Saboteur.
Radio Free Moscow
Tune into messages
from the Eastern avenue.
Lock on to the ether
squeeze the signal through and through.
War of the air-waves
making scare-waves.
I'm getting pictures
from my radio (Free Moscow).
Moscow Radio.
Voice of America
symbol of the free.
Mine of disinformation
pleading sympathy.
Down in the cold-war games
forever naming names.
Keep getting pictures
I put my headphones on
reach out on the beam.
Shutter up the windows
I'm getting up some steam.
Somebody's at the door
catching me in the act
they've been keeping the score.
Yes, I'm getting pictures
Astronomy
The middle lane has trapped my car
in red-light claustrophobia.
I slip the shackles, cut the rope
stand naked with a telescope
as the cat walks alone
under a big sky.
Against the dark so thin and white
gonna be a big sky night.
Miss Galileo, come with me

and view the new Astronomy.
Black hole dressing on salad plate
quasar at the kissing gate.
Now the cat, he walks alone
under a big sky.
Umbrella dome pin-pricked in lights
gonna be a big sky night.
My spectacles, my white lab coat

my coffee thermos and my notes.
I pat my pockets. I got the keys
to the secrets of the observatory.
And closing the door,
I feel a new dawn
as the darker sides align
you to yours and me to mine.
And now you stand, assisting me

I can touch what I can see, see, see.
I look in wonder, I feel no shame
see the consequences of the game.
Expand my universe.
Head for the Big Bang.
Reach for my switch and shout
gonna turn the big sky out.
There's got to be astronomy.

Astronomy.
Tundra
Short Arctic desert day
and someone left their snow-shoes in the tundra.
Look around every which way
but I can't see just where the footprints go.
Is it a casual disappearance?
Plucked from the middle atmosphere
like straw wind-blown.
No speck on the horizon
no simple message scrawled
upon the snow.
Unearthly visitation
someone left their snow-shoes in the tundra.
Hungry buzzard flier
circling round and round

rattling death's tambourine.
Have to run it down the cold wire

late insertion in tomorrow's lost and found.
Should I spread out searching?
But I'm a little thin upon the ground.
So I raise my lips to coax

the last drop of brandy from the bottle.
Rest my feet and contemplate
the mystery that's haunting

this Siberian space.
Show-shoes they bind me down

I'm just one more parasite of the surface layer.
I begin to get the feeling
I've been on this stage before
and I'm the only player.
One more Arctic desert day

another set of shoes out in the tundra snow.
I make my fade to white-out
and you can't see me where my footprints go.
Nobody's Car
Black Volga following me
Nobody's car.
Mr. No-one at the wheel of
Nobody's car.
Wet pavements, thin apartments
quiet dissent from darkened doorways.
I want out alive.
Speak up for me if you can.
So, careful how you drive
in tourist city.
Slap in front of my hotel

it's Nobody's car.
Is that my limousine?
No, it's Nobody's car.
Are you on routine assignment?
Plastic shades on black-browed eye-hole.
I read this book before.
I even saw the film.
How did the ending go?

(In tourist city.)
Black out.
It's a weird scenario.

I've seen a thousand times before
but only on my video.
Feel my steps quick in the headlights of Nobody's car.
Down cobbled alley with no exit from

Nobody's car.
Doors slam, two figures silhouette
somewhere before, I feel we've met.
Can't tell you any more.
I agreed to go along with all they asked of me.
Intourist city.
I drive Nobody's car.
Heat
When the rats are running
and the boys are gunning
for heads on a tin plate
you can hear the footfall
softly in the back yard.
And the black jack is called
face up on the last card.
You'd better call your witness

in your dirty business.
Trop tard sera le cri.
Better run while you can
better set the tall sail.
Better make deep cover
before the boys have you nailed.
There's just one chance to get away

I'll catch up with you another day.
I'll close my eyes and count to ten
and come right after you again.
Grab your credit cards

cash in on your resources.
Take your passport from the drawer,
don't stop to change the horses.
Get out of the heat.
Now can you feel the pressure?

Have you got the measure
of being a wanted man?
Cold drink in your hand
hot sweat on your brow.
And there's no understanding
going to help you now.
Grab your credit cards

cash in on your resources.
Take your passport from the drawer,
don't stop to change the horses.
Notify all parties
of an earlier vacation.
No use trying to board the train
after it's left the station.
Get out of the heat.

Under Wraps #2
Keep it quiet. (Go slow.)
Circulate. Need to know.
Stamp the date upon your file
masquerade, but well worth while.
Wrapped in the warmth of you
wrapped up in your smile.
Wear an air (keep mum)

of casual indifference.
Careful how you go

about your usual business.
Wrapped in daydreams of you

wrapped up by your eyes.
Tell you when (not yet)

soon the great unveiling.
Bless my boots! Upon my soul!
Secrecy, it is my failing.
Wrapped in your Summer night
wrapped in your Autumn leaves.
Wrapped in the Winter of your sleeping.
Paparazzi
Paparazzi, can't make the man.
Paparazzi, can't break the man.
Next to the transit lounge

see the Paparazzi tears.
No-one came in today
from Boston or Tangiers.
And in departures
only faceless trippers trip,
loaded with duty free
held in white knuckle grip.
Snap it up, flash away

steal a camel for a day.
Break the story in heavy type
the news is running late tonight.
Be-decked with Nikon necklaces

hear the Paparazzi cries.
Under their noses walk
the famous in disguise.
Conspicuously huddled there
but no-one stops to look.
They've got their crayons out
to colour in the book.

Paparazzi won't be home tonight.
Paparazzi write it down.

Paparazzi turn it around.
Paparazzi take it, fake it,
break it.
'cause it's a story.
Now someone's cut the lines
communication's down.
All photo film is fogged.
Celebrities surround
and jab their fingers at me.
They kiss but I can't tell.
Even poor Paparazzi
must have privacy as well.

the news is running late tonight.

Paparazzi won't be home tonight.
Apogee
Sailing round the true-blue sphere
is it too late to bale out of here?
Well, there has to be some better way
to turn back the night,
spin on to yesterday.
The old man and his crew

after all these years,
it's apogee.
Pilot training and remorse
spirit friends fly too,
at apogee.
Apogee solar bright.
Apogee through the night.
Apogee overground.
Don't think I'll be coming down.
Screened for a stable mate

with nerves of ice we flew,
at apogee.
No creativity allowed
to pass through stainless veins of steel,
at apogee.
Apogee put the kettle on.
Tight-lipped soldier on.
High point communicate.
Don't forget to urinate.
So glad they put this window in.

How to explain, how to begin?
See! Tennyson and Wordsworth there
waiting for me in the cold, thin air.
Beware a host of unearthly daffodils
drifting golden, turned up loud.
Tell the boys back home,
I'm gonna get some.
The Wrong Stuff's loose in here

I'm climbing up the walls,
at apogee.
So hoist the skull and bones
death and glory's free,
at apogee.
A stranger wind, a solar breeze

I'm walking out upon the starry seas.
See pyramids, see standing stones,
pink cotton undies and blue telephones.
Goodbye, cruel world that was my home

there's a cleaner space out there to roam.
Put my feet up on the moons of Mars
sit back, relax and count the stars.
Automotive Engineering
Automotive science and engineering.
In the hands of science

the complete appliance.
We're moved to motor.
Do you fly a Spitfire?

Do you slide on a tea-tray?
Or walk on a short trip (Sundays).

Or drive come what may.

When big was better

and fast was chic,
the oil was cheaper
now we're up the creek.
But the Japs are coming
and everyone's turbo'd
and carbon fibre
is the way to go, go.

Down at the robot factory

things are humming.
New radical suspension
no humans testing.
(Wind it up, wind it up.)
Take a trip
in your Freudian slip.
Dr. Ferdinand (Ferdie)
has you in his grip.

General Crossing
It's an old profession
of subtle artillery.
Rough wheels meshing
button out, button in.
The tall General will mine

a few bridges tonight,
stroking soft machinery.
Fanfare at dawn
courting green steel
lined up for World War One
(Two, Three, Four).
It's an old profession

of subtle artillery.
Rough wheels meshing
on a landscape with no trees.
The tall General points

to the distance
disconnects his power supply.

Crites a stiff note to his nearest
and dearest
he takes the battle plan
and contemplates his fly.
The tall General

flies by the seat of history.
The tall General
is crossing.
The tall General
he thinks inevitability.
The tall General
is definitely crossing.
With spit and with polish
time for desperate measures.
The pain in the forehead
from holding up to the pressures
of life on the rim
of the convenient alliance.
Out on the rim
let me out on the rim.
The tall General will walk

across the compound
with his briefcase and I.D.
Later they'll post him
seemingly missing
he's gone to be a Generalski.
Crest Of A Knave
Ian Anderson - Flute, guitars, keyboards, drum programming, percussion, vocals
Dave Pegg - Electric bass, acoustic bass
Doane Perry - Drums, tracks 2 and 7
Gerry Conway - Drums, tracks 3, 4, 6 and 8
Ric Sanders - Violin, tracks 6 and 8
Steel Monkey
Farm On The Freeway
Jump Start
Said She Was A Dancer
Dogs In The Midwinter
Budapest
Mountain Men
The Waking Edge
Raising Steam
Steel Monkey
As the moon slips up, and the sun sets down,
I'm a highrise jockey, and I'm heaven-bound.
Do the workboot shuffle, loose brains from brawn.
I'm a monkey puzzle and the lid is on.
Can you guess my name? Can you guess my trade?

I'm going to catch you anyway.
You might be right. I'll give you guesses three.
Feel me climbing up your knee.
Guess what I am. I'm a steel monkey.
Now some men hustle and some just think.

And some go running before you blink.
Some look up and some look down
from three hundred feet above the ground.
Can you guess my name? And can you guess my trade?

Well, I won't rest before the world is made.
Arm in arm the angels fly.
Keep me from falling out the sky.
Steel monkey.
I work in the thunder and I work in the rain.

I work at my drinking, and I feel no pain.
I work on women, if they want me to.
You can have me climb all over you.
Now, have you guessed my name?

And have you guessed my trade?
I'm cheap at the money I get paid.
In the sulphur city, where men are men,
we bolt those beams then climb again.
Steel monkey.
Farm On The Freeway
Nine miles of two-strand topped with barbed wire
laid by the father for the son.
Good shelter down there on the valley floor,
down by where the sweet stream run.
Now they might give me compensation...
That's not what I'm chasing. I was a rich man before yesterday.
Now all I have got is a cheque and a pickup truck.
I left my farm on the freeway.
They're busy building airports on the south side...

Silicon chip factory on the east.
And the big road's pushing through along the valley floor.
Hot machine pouring six lanes at the very least.
Now, they say they gave me compensation...
Now all I have left is a broken-down pickup truck.
Looks like my farm is a freeway.
They forgot they told us what this old land was for.
Grow two tons the acre, boy, between the stones.
This was no Southfork, it was no Ponderosa.
But it was the place that I called home.
They say they gave me compensation...
And what do I want with a million dollars and a pickup truck?
When I left my farm under the freeway.
Jump Start
In the dark of the city backwoods, something stirs then slips away.
Law and order in darkest Knightsbridge. Crime and punishment at play.
Hey, Mr. Policeman won't you come on over. Hook me up to the power lines
of your love.
Jump start, or tow me away.
And through the bruised machinery, the smoking haze of industry.

Another day with ball and chain. I do my time, then home again.
Hey, Mrs. Maggie won't you come on over. Hook me up to the power lines
of your love.
Well, should I blame the officers? Or maybe, I should blame the priest?
Or should I blame the poor foot soldier
who's left to make the most from least?
Hey, Jack Ripper won't you come on over. Hook me up to the power lines
of your love.
You can blame the newsman talking at you on the satellite T.V.
And if you're fighting for your shipyards, you might as well just blame the sea.
Hey, Mr. Weatherman come on over. Hook me up to the power lines
of your love.
Said She Was A Dancer
She said she was a dancer. If I believed it, it was my busines
She surely knew a thing or two about control.
Next to the bar we hit the samovar. She almost slipped right through my fingers.
It was snowing outside and in her soul.
Well, maybe you're a dancer, and maybe I'm the King of Old Siam.
I thought it through... best to let the illusion roll.
I wouldn't say I've never heard that tale before,
my frozen little seorita,
but if your dream is good, why not share it when the nights are cold?
Hey Moscow, what's your story? Lady, take your time, don't hurry.
Maybe a student of the agricultural plan.
Hey Moscow, what's your name? If you don't want to say, don't worry.
It would probably be hard for me to make it scan.
With her phrase book in her silk soft hand

she spoke in riddles while the vodka listened.
I said, ``Let me look up love, if I might be so bold.''
She was the nearest thing to Rock and Roll
that side of the velvet curtain
that separates eastern steel from western gold.
Hey Miss Moscow, what's your story?

You needn't speak aloud, just whisper.
Am I just the closest thing to an Englishman?
You've seen me in your magazines, or maybe on state television.
I'm your Pepsi-Cola, but you won't take me out the can.
She said she was a dancer --- so she did.
She said she was a dancer. If I believed it, it was my business.

It felt like a merry dance that I was being led.
So I stole one kiss. It was a near miss.
She looked at me like I was Jack the Ripper.
She leaned in close. ``Goodnight,'' was all she said.
So I took myself off to bed.
Dogs In The Midwinter
You ever had a day like I had today,
when things are stacked up bad?
You look around and every face you see
seems guaranteed to send you mad.
And you peer into those hallowed institutions.
And they bark at you from every side.
But the bite goes wide.
I see them running with their tails hanging low

like dogs in the midwinter.
The prophets and the wise men and the hard politicos
are all dogs in the midwinter.
Let the breath from the mountain still the pain,
clear water from the fountain run sweeter than the rain.
Dogs in the midwinter.
The boss man and the tax man and the moneylenders growl...
The weaker of the herd can feel their eyes and hear them howl
Though the fox and the rabbit are at peace,
cold doggies in the manger turn last suppers into feasts.
You ever had a day like i had today ---

dogs in the midwinter.
You look around and every face you see ---
dogs in the midwinter.
And you peer into those hallowed institutions.
And they bark at you from every side.
But the bite goes wide.
We're all running on a tightrope, wearing slippers in the snow...

we're all dogs in the midwinter.
The ice is ever thinner. Be careful how you go
And it's hard to find true equilibrium
when you're looking at each other down the muzzle of a gun.
Budapest
I think she was a middle-distance runner...
(the translation wasn't clear).
Could be a budding stately hero.
International competition in a year.
She was a good enough reason for a party...
(well, you couldn't keep up on a hard track mile)
while she ran a perfect circle.
And she wore a perfect smile
in Budapest... hot night in Budapest.
We had to cozzy up in the old gymnasium...

dusting off the mandolins and checking on the gear.
She was helping out at the back-stage...
stopping hearts and chilling beer.
Yes, and her legs went on for ever.
Like staring up at infinity
through a wisp of cotton panty
along a skin of satin sea.
Hot night in Budapest.
You could cut the heat, peel it back with the wrong side of a knife.
Feel it blowing from the sidefills. Feel like you were playing for your life
(if not the money).
She bent down to fill the ice box

and stuffed some more warm white wine in
like some weird unearthly vision
wearing only T-shirt, pants and skin.
You know, it rippled, just a hint of muscle.
But the boys and me were heading west
so we left her to the late crew
and a hot night in Budapest.
It was a hot night in Budapest.
She didn't speak much English language...

(she didn't speak much anyway).
She wouldn't make love, but she could make good sandwich
and she poured sweet wine before we played.
Hey, Budapest, cha, cha, cha. Let's watch her now.

I thought I saw her at the late night restaurant.
She would have sent blue shivers down the wall.
But she didn't grace our table.
In fact, she wasn't there at all.
Yes, and her legs went on forever.
Like staring up at infinity.
Her heart was spinning to the west-lands
and she didn't care to be
that night in Budapest.
Mountain Men
The poacher and his daughter
throw soft shadows on the water in the night.
A thin moon slips behind them
as they pull the net with no betraying light.
And later on the coast road, I meet them
and the old man winks a smile.
And who am I to fast deny the right
to take a fish once in a while?
I walk with them, they wish me luck
when I ship out on the Sunday from the kyle.
And from the church I hear them singing
as the ship moves sadly from the pier.
Oh, poacher's daughter, Sunday best,
two hundred brave souls share the farewell tear.
There's a house on the hillside, where the drifting sands are born.
Lay down and let the slow tide wash me
back to the land where I came from.
Where the mountain men are kings
and the sound of the piper counts for everything.
Did my tour, did my duty. I did all they asked of me.

Died in the trenches and at Alamein
...died in the Falklands on T.V.
Going back to the mountain kings
where the sound of the piper counts for everything.
Long generations from the Isles

sent to tread the foreign miles
where the spiral ages meet.
Felt naked dust beneath their feet.
Future sun called winds to blow
and the past and present hard-eyed crow
flew hunting high and circling low over blackened plains of Eden.
There's a child and a woman praying for an end to the mystery.

Hoping for a word in a letter
fair wind-blown from across the sea
to where the mountain men are kings
and the sound of the piper counts for eveything.
There's a house on the hillside, where the drifting sands are born.
Lay down and let the slow tide wash me
back to the land where I came from.
Where the mountain men are kings
Where the real mountain men are kings
Feel the naked dust beneath my toes

while the future sun calls winds to blow
and the past and present black-eyed crow
flies hunting high and circling low
between dream mountains of our Eden.
The Waking Edge
As I wake up in a room somewhere...
dawn light not yet showing.
There's just a thin horizon between me and her...
the edge of a half-dream glowing.
Well, you know, I felt her in my dream last night.

Strange how the sheets are warm beside me.
Now, how do I catch the waking edge?
As it slips to the far and wide of me.
Didn't I try to hold it down?

Freeze on the picture, hang sharp on the sound.
Catch the waking edge
another time.
Familiar shadows in my hotel room

are still here for the taking.
They seem to linger on as the street lights fade
and the empty dawn is breaking.
Private movie showing in my head...

which button do I press for re-run?
And how do I catch the waking edge?
The edge of a dream about someone.
Well, you know, I felt her in my dream last night...

now the sheets are cold beside me.
Raising Steam
Over high plains, through the snow...
roll those tracks out, don't you know
I'm raising steam.
Thin vein creeping; hot blood flow...
spill a little where the new towns grow.
I got my whole life hanging in a sack,
heading out into that wide world wide.
You got your locomotive sitting on your track
and I don't care which way I ride.
I may not be coming back.
Left a lady with a heart

all in pieces come apart
raising steam.
That engine up front must
have a heart big enough for the both of us.
Riding shotgun on the sunset, stare it in the eye,
rocking on my heels out to the west.
Funny how the whole world, historically,
feels the urge to chase the sun to rest.
We may not be coming back.
Let me be your engineer...

have you smiling ear to ear
raising steam.
And will you tell me how it feels
when you're up and rolling on your driving wheels?
I got my whole life hanging in a sack,
heading out into that wide world wide.
I'll be your locomotive blowing off its stack
and I don't care which way I ride.
I may not be coming back.
Raising steam.
20 Years Of Jethro Tull Box
3-CD Box - Release date: 27. June 1988 (UK)
DISC 1:
Ian Anderson - Flute, mouth organ, claghorn, piano, vocals, harmonica, mandolin, all tracks
Mick Abrahams - Guitar, 9-string guitar, vocals, tracks 1 - 2, 5, 23 and 25
Clive Bunker - Drums, hooter and charm bracelet, tracks 1 - 6, 22 - 23 and 25
Glenn Cornick Bass, tracks 1 - 2, 4 - 6, and 22 - 25
Neil Smith - Electric guitar, track 24
Martin Barre - Electric guitar, marimba, tracks 4, 6, 9, 11 - 16 and 18 - 22
Barriemore Barlow - Drums, percussion, tracks 8 - 9, 15, 18 - 21 and 24
Jeffrey Hammond-Hammond Bass, tracks 15 and 17 - 18
John Glascock - Bass, vocals, tracks 9 and 19
John Evans Piano, tracks 9, 17 - 19, 20 - 21 and 24
Gerry Conway - Drums, percussion, tracks 11 - 13, 14 and 16
Dave Pegg - Bass, mandolins, vocals, tracks 11 - 14, 16 and 20
Peter-John Vettese - Piano, synthesizer, track 11
David Palmer - Keyboards, orchestra conductor, tracks 14 - 15 and 20 21
Song For Jeffrey

Love Story
Fat Man
Boure
Stormy Monday Blues
A New Day Yesterday
Cold Wind To Valhalla
Velvet Green
Grace
Jack Frost And The Hooded Crow
I'm Your Gun
Down At The End Of Your Road
Coronach
Summerday Sands
Too Many Too
March The Mad Scientist
Pan Dance [instrumental]
Strip Cartoon
King Henry's Madrigal [instrumental]
A Stitch In Time
17
One For John Gee [instrumental]
Aeroplane
Sunshine Day
Stormy Monday Blues
(T-Bone Walker)
I said they call it Stormy Monday

But I said Tuesday's just as bad.
I said they call it Stormy Monday
Tuesday is just as bad.
Wednesday's full of sorrow,
I said that Thursday's oh-so, it's oh-so-sad. It's oh-so-sad.
I said lord, lord, why don't you have mercy,

You gotta have mercy on me.
So I'm trying to find my woman,
Won't you bring her home to me?
I said they call it stormy Monday.
Through long December nights we talk in words of rain or snow,
while you, through chattering teeth, reply and curse us as you go.
Why not spare a thought this day for those who have no flame
to warm their bones at Christmas time?
Say Jack Frost and the Hooded Crow.
Now as the last broad oak leaf falls, we beg: consider this:
there's some who have no coin to save for turkey, wine or gifts.
No children's laughter round the fire, no family left to know.
So lend a warm and a helping hand:
say Jack Frost and the Hooded Crow.
As holly pricks and ivy clings, your fate is none too clear.
The Lord may find you wanting, let your good fortune disappear.
All homely comforts blown away and all that's left to show
is to share your joy at Christmas time
with Jack Frost and the Hooded Crow.
Through long December nights we talk in words of rain or snow,

while you, through chattering teeth, reply and curse us as you go.
Why not spare a thought this day for those who have no flame
to warm their bones at Christmas time?
Say Jack Frost and the Hooded Crow.
I'm Your Gun
Blew my smoke on a sunny day,
when the first black powder came my way.
Hot lead ball from a muzzle cold
to win fair lady and take your gold.
I know it hardly seems the time (I am your gun)
to talk of blue steel so sublime. (I am your gun)
I can understand your point of view. (I am your gun)
To tell the truth I'd scare me too.
Match, wheel and flintlock, they all caught your eye.

Pearl-handled ladies' models, scaled down to size.
I am the peacemaker, so the theory goes.
But I don't choose the company I keep and it shows.
I am your gun.
Love me, I'm your gun.
Maxim and Browning, they helped me along.

Stoner, Kalashnikov thrilled to my song.
Now one of me exists, for each one of you,
So how can you blame me for the things that I do?
Now I take second place to the motor car (I am your gun)

in the score of killing kept thus far. (I am your gun)
And just remember, if you don't mind (I am your gun)
it's not the gun that kills but the man behind.
I am your gun.
I am your gun.
I am your gun.
I am your gun.
Down At The End Of Your Road
I am your neighbor. I seem most respectable,
But underneath I'm an iniquitous toad.
So many dreadful mishaps have befallen you
down at the end of your road.
And I live down the end of your road.
I'm working on ways to remove you from paradise,

from your striped lawn and your new swimming pool.
I place broken bottles in your geraniums
sabotage your gardening tools.
By day I am a real estate gentleman.

I deal in fine properties cheap at the price.
After dark, I plan my most devious practices
which you might think are not very nice.
Designing a system to reverse your plumbing

welling up, as you sit on your private throne.
Will come up all kinds of vile and despicable nasties
you would rather not have in your home.
Dispensed loathsome creatures in your drawing room,

Sent doggy poo-poos in your morning mail.
Rat's heads and lark's wings should set your tums turning
and your houses will soon be for sale.
Yes, I live down the end of your road.
Well, I live down the end of your road.
I live down the end of your road.
Coronach
Grey the mist cold the dawn;
cruel the sea and stern the shore.
Brave the man who sets his course
for Albion.
Sweet the rose sharp the thorn;

meek the soil and proud the corn.
Blessed the lamb that would be born
within this green and pleasant land.
Hi-O-Ran-I-Ro
Hi-O-Ran-I-Ro
Brown furrow shine

beneath the rain washed blue.
Bright crystal streams
from eagle mountains born.
Fortune has smiled on those who wake anew,
within this fortress nature built
to stay the hand of war.
With the wind from the east

came the first of those to tread
upon this stone, this throne of kings;
this realm, this new Jerusalem.
Hi-O-Ran-I-Ro
Hi-O-Ran-I-Ro
Hi-O-Ran-I-Ro
Hi-O-Ran-I-Ro
Summerday Sands
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lay together on the summerday sands.
I gave her my raincoat and told her, "Lady, be good!"
And we made truth together, where no one else would.
I smiled through her fingers and ran the dust through her hands,
the hour-glass of reason on the summerday sands.
We sat as the sea caught fire.

Waited as the flames grew higher in her eyes,
in her eyes.
We watched the eagle born
wings clipped, tail feathers shorn, but we saw him rise,
we saw him rise over summerday sands.
Came the ten o'clock curfew.

She said, "I must start my car.
I'm staying with someone I met last night in a bar."
I called from my wave top:"At least tell me your name!"
She smiled from her wheelspin and said, "It's all the same."
I thought for a minute, jumped back on dry land
left one set of footprints on the summerday sands.
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lied together on the summerday sands.
Too Many Too
Too many drivers in too many cars.
Too many lost souls drinking in too many bars.
Too many heroes stepping on too many toes.
Too many yes-men nodding when they really mean no.
Too many lives each cat can lose,
we've got too many too.
Too many too.
Too much sunshine. Too many drops of rain.

Too many equal and average children who will all grow up the same.
Too many fireside politicians holding too many views.
Too many questions but there are answers too few.
we've got too many too.
If I were a liar yes, and you were a cheat,

there would be too many places where we all could meet.
Too many temples where we could worship the beast.
Where he who thinks he had the most in fact has the least.
I've got too many too.
March The Mad Scientist
What would you like for Christmas:
a new polarity?
You're binary, and desperate to deal in high figures
that lick us with their hotter flame
lick each and everyone the same.
And March, the mad scientist,
brings a new change
in ever-dancing colours.
He rings it here and he rings it,

but no one stops to see
the change of fate and the fate of change
that slips into his pocket
so he locks it all away from view
and shares not what he thought you knew.
And April is summer-bound,
And February's blue.
And no one stops to see the colours.
Strip Cartoon
Fish and chips, sandpaper lips and a rainy pavement.
Soho lights, another night thinking of you.
Black cat, sat on a wall, winks at me darkly.
Suggesting ways and means that I might win a smile,
as you leave the place where you work until 12.30
and the policemen nods as you pass along his beat.
Sweaty feet, troubled brow we're all in the same game, lady.
Life's no bowl of cherries it's a black and white strip cartoon.
I've been warned that you and your friends are crazy
as from your hearts you bare your parts to the gentlemen,
who, while they drool, trying to keep cool,
spill their Scotch and water.
But I'm not that way, I must say I'd much prefer to see
you in your texturised rubber rainwear around 12.30.
Come and play shades of grey in my black and white strip cartoon.
Strip cartoon is all I'm after.

Strip cartoon is all I crave,
so come to my place around 12:30
'cause I'm a leading politician
at a dangerous age.
Strip cartoon is all I'm after.

so come to my place around 12:30
at a dangerous age.
Strip cartoon, strip cartoon is all I'm after.

so come to my place around 12.30
at a dangerous age.
A Stitch In Time
I work in dark factories, a cog in the big wheel,
driving grey satanic mills and weaving sad stories.
And faceless masters oh, they pay me plenty

crumbs from their luncheon packs, harsh wine from bottles half empty.
A stitch in time saves nine.

Said Cock Robin from the wall.
It's an early bird catches the worm.
Show a little pride before you fall.
So I flew to the south sun with birds of a feather
to drink in the warm nights and tell of fine weather.

Listen all you young folk your lives on a timetable,

clocking on twenty-one fly while you're able.

17
I remember when
we had a lot of things to do,
impressed by all the words we read
and the heroes that we knew.
Climb on your your dream,
a dream of our own making
to find a place that we could later lose
to whatever time would bring.
We were seventeen
and the cakeman was affecting you,
moving you to greater things
(in a lesser way) you had to prove.
The clock struck summertime.
You were going round in circles now.
Wishing you were seventeen.
At twenty-one, it was a long time gone.
And now here you are.

You're locked in your own excuse.
The circle's getting smaller every day.
You're busy planning your next fifty years.
So stay the way you are
and keep your head down to the same old ground.
Just paint your picture boy until you find
a closed circle's better than an open line.
Yes stay the way you are.

I got a circle that's the same as yours.
It may be bigger, but I've more to lose.
Who is the luckier man me or you?
Aeroplane
Flying made of sticks and paper:
aeroplane.
Dying is the wind but climbing,
my aeroplane.
Blowing, and going somewhere high
in the evening tumbling down,
but it's surely been up there.
Crying want to live my life as

my aeroplane
Sighing in the sun's eye, but softly:
my aeroplane.
Lonely, but only till it comes down,

well there's people running round.
But it's surely been up there.
Flying my aeroplane.
my aeroplane
my aeroplane
my aeroplane
Sunshine Day
Woke up this morning to look at things in their funny way.
Why can't they be like they used to be only yesterday.
Ooh, bring back my sunshine day.
I look at things that once were mine with such despair.

Why do the things I say only fall on empty air?
My mind cries: Bring back my sunshine day.
I say the things I used to say, but they don't seem right.
Why does this world seem like the darkest endless night?
Bring back my sunshine day.
DISC 2:
Clive Bunker - Drums, hooter and charm bracelet, track 1
Martin Barre - Electric guitar, marimba, tracks 1 - 14 and 17 - 18
Barriemore Barlow - Drums, percussion, tracks 2 - 5, 8, 13 - 14 and 18
Jeffrey Hammond-Hammond Bass, tracks 1 - 2 and 5
John Glascock - Bass, vocals, tracks 3 - 4, 8, 13 - 14 and 17 - 18
John Evans Piano, tracks 1, 3 - 5, 8, 13 - 14 and 18
Gerry Conway - Drums, percussion, tracks 6 - 7 and 9 - 12
Dave Pegg - Bass, mandolins, vocals, tracks 6 - 7, 9 - 12 and 15
Peter-John Vettese - Piano, synthesizer, tracks 6 - 7 and 9
David Palmer - Keyboards, orchestra conductor, tracks 3, 14 and 18
Martin Allcock - Bouzouki, electric guitar, keyboards, track 10
Lick Your Fingers Clean

The Chateau D'Isaster Tapes
Beltane
Crossword
Saturation
Jack-A-Lynn
Motoreyes
Blues Instrumental (Untitled)
Rhythm In Gold
Part Of The Machine
Mayhem, Maybe
Overhang
Kelpie
Living In These Hard Times
Under Wraps #2
Only Solitaire
Salamander
Moths
Nursie
Lick Your Fingers Clean
I'll see you at the weighing in
And you set your wealth in godly deeds
against the sins you've laid.
So place your final burden
on your hard-pressed next of kin:
Send the chamber pot back down the line
to be filled up again.
Take your mind off your election
and try to get it straight.
And don't pretend perfection
you'll be crucified too late.
And he'll say you really should make the deal
Well, you'd better lick your fingers clean, I thank you all for that.
And as you join the good ship earth
and you mingle with the dust
be sure to leave your underpants
with someone you can trust.
And the hard-headed social worker who bathes his hands in blood
will welcome you with arms held high
and cover you with mud.
And he'll say you really should make the deal
Well, you'd better lick your fingers clean, I thank you all for that.
The Chateau D'Isaster Tapes
a) Scenario
In long years of ancient time, stood alone a friend of mine.

Reflected by the ever-burning sigh of a god who happened by.
And in the dawn, there came the song of some sweet lady singing in his ear.
Your god has gone, and from now on, you'll have to learn to hate
the things you fear.
We want to know, are we inside the womb

of passion plays, and by righteousness consumed?
Or just in lush contentment of our souls?
And so began the age of man.

They left his body in the sand.
Their glasses raised to a god on high
who smiled upon them from the sky.
So take the stage. Spin down the ages. Loose the passion.
Spill the rage upon your son who holds the gun up to your head
the play's begun.
b) Audition
Then God, the director, smells a rat.

Pulls another rabbit from His hat.
Sniffs the air and He says, ``Well, that's that - I'm going.''
The actors milling helplessly - the script is blowing out to sea.
But what the hell, we didn't even pass an audition.
The lines you'll have to improvise. The words are written in
the eyes of politicians who despise their fathers.
And so the play necessitates that all you boys participate
in fierce competition to eliminate each other.
And groupies, on their way to war,

get to write the next film score.
But the rock and roll star knows his glory is really nothing.
Men of religion, on the make,
pledge an oath they undertake to
make you white for God's own sake, and none other.
While ladies get their bedding done

to win themselves a bouncing son
but bad girls do it for the fun of just being.
And me, I'm here to sing along,
and I'm not concerned with the righting wrongs,
just asking questions that belong without an answer.
The God is laughing up his sleeve
as He pours himself another cup of tea,
and He waves goodbye to you and me,
at least for now.
c) No Rehearsal
Did you learn your lines today? Well, there is no rehearsal.

The tickets have all been sold for tomorrow's matinee.
There's a telegram from the writer,
but there is no rehearsal.
The electrician has been told to make the spotlights brighter.
There's one seat in the circle - five hundred million in the stalls.
Simply everyone will be there, but the safety curtain falls when
the bomb that's in the dressing room
blows the windows from their frames.
And the prompter in his corner is sorry that he came.
Did you learn your lines today? Well there is no rehearsal.

The interval will last until the ice-cream lady melts away.
The twelve piece orchestra are here, but there is no rehearsal.
The first violinist's hands are chilled - he's gone deaf in both ears.
Well, the scenery is colourful, but the paint is so damn thin.
You see the wall behind is crumbling,
and the stage door is bricked-in.
But the audience keep arriving
`till they're standing in the wings.
And we take the final curtain call, and the ceiling crashes in.
Beltane
Have you ever stood in the April wood

and called the new year in?
While the phantoms of three thousand years fly
as the dead leaves spin?
There's a snap in the grass behind your feet
and a tap upon your shoulder.
And the thin wind crawls along your neck
it's just the old gods getting older.
And the kestral drops like a fall of shot and
the red cloud hanging high
come - a Beltane.
Have you ever loved a lover of the old elastic truth?

And doted on the daughter in the ministry of youth?
Thrust your head between the breasts of the fertile innocent.
And taken up the cause of love, for the sake of argument.
Or while the kisses drop like a fall of shot
from soft lips in the rain
come - a Beltane.
Happy old new year to you and yours.

The sun's up for one more day, to be sure.
Play it out gladly, for your card's marked again.
Have you walked around your parks and towns so knife-edged orderly?
While the fires are burned on the hills upturned
in far-off wild country.
And felt the chill on your window sill
as the green man comes around.
With his walking cane of sweet hazel - brings it crashing down.
Sends your knuckles white as the thin stick bites.
Well, it's just your groaning pains.
Come - a Beltane.
Crossword
Walking on air, shoulder and head above you.

Down in the street, black canyons walking through.
Hooded sad eyes, fixed on your shuffle shoes.
Life is a clue in your crossword.
Typewriter turk. Telephone terror takes time to wind down.

Push-button finger shakes.
City of dreams. Back to your quiet nightmare.
Your life is a clue in the crossword.
Working to rule in your own time.

Drag yourself home to your star sign page.
Staying awake on cold yesterday's steak and warm beer.
Ladder of string - climbing to sweet success.

Homework aside. Your brain on the train to test.
Pick up the news (you left on the seat beside you).
Your life is a clue in the crossword.
Saturation
They left me, leaving my house on fire, me running round

got out through the window.
While clinging to the skirts of fate
was not my idea of fun
I'll jump to it gladly.
The town was filled with smoke and hate.
Came to my senses just too late
to realize that all I ever owned
was borrowed. I thanked them for having shown
me that nothing ever really belongs to anyone.
They burned my books and they broke my car,

and gave the dog to a man who used him for breeding.
They felled my trees and they tramped flowers and threw
the kitten into my new pool.
The same things done to other men had made them run away from the city.
This being the case, I joined them there and breathing air spent
the night with these new friends.
Jack-A-Lynn
Cold aeroplanes, slow boats, warm trains

remind me of Jack-A-Lynn.
Lush hotels and pretty girls
won't cheer the misty mood I'm in.
Silly, sad - I've never had to write this before
oh, Jack-A-Lynn.
Funny how long nights allow

thoughts of Jack-A-Lynn.
When phantoms tread around my bed
to offer restless dreams they bring.
And it's just the time and place to find
a sad song to play
for Jack-A-Lynn.
Magpies that shriek, old boots that leak

call me to Jack-A-Lynn.
Coal-black cats in policeman's hats
nosing where the mice have been.
And the long miaow's beginning now
and I'm far, far from home
and Jack-A-Lynn.
Motoreyes
Out on the fast and free way,

humming along through a build-up ad-man's dream.
Steaking past in a cloud of spray
goes the high-performance motor queen.
And she looks round at me
reflecting neon in her motoreyes.
And now the chase is on.
I know who'll be the loser - me.
See the end curve coming, then we're

back on the street through the late theater crowds.
And the stop lights go and we're cruising side by side
still humming loud.
And she looks round again
her motoreyes going to tell me when.
Put her right foot to the floor.
Shows me she's no slow woman.
She takes her cafe noir, smokes small cigars

showing just a touch of thigh (sigh!).
And sips her whisky straight, and she stays up late
to kiss the morning bye-bye.
Now we're out of town, going to shake her down

if I can stay along.
Got my blue light on, put her in the net
with my siren song.
Pulls over to the side
her motoreyes are staring wide.
She flashes her I.D.
and makes a bigger fool of me.
Rhythm In Gold
I have to call you up. Think I've seen a vision of rhythm in gold.
No cat could ever move that way. No puss would dare to be so bold.
Must tell the boys to follow you.
Catch you where you go to ground.
A lady of means, I can see. Rhythm in gold is getting to me.
What's your name, and where can I find you?
Are you just a rich man's friend,

or was it always in the family?
You seem to throw the challenge down,
by the way you didn't even look at me.
Put the boys on you. Immobilize your nine-eleven.
There's nothing I could do for you that would really matter much anyway.
You belong to everyone. Rhythm in gold's the number that you play.
Put the boys on you. Sabotage your nine-eleven.
Part Of The Machine
Everybody's jumping on the circus train.

Some jump high, some jump off again.
And the razzmatazz is rolling, women folk unveiled.
All truths to light, all crosses nailed.
Aiming high where the eagle circles
where he keeps his tail feathers clean.
And wonders `Àm I still a free bird?
Or just a part of the machine.''
They hitch their coverd wagons and they roll out west.
Politics in the pockets of their Sunday best.
Shaking hands, kissing babies, for all that they're worth.
Oh, they promise you gold, promise heaven on earth.
Still, that old bald eagle circles

it's not the first time that he's seen
his reflection in the eyes of innocence.
He's become just another
part of the machine.
I wish I had an eagle like you

to look up to.
He could be my wings to fly in a big bird sky
up above the whole machine.
Smart guys aren't running - they're home and dry.

Up in the mountains where the eagle flies.
They wouldn't take that job
offered on a plate.
They got to fly with the eagle, and he won't wait.
Looking down on the smoke and the factories
till the truth creeps up unseen.
They see themselves in the faces of their children
and realize they too are
part of the machine.
I wish I had an eagle like you

to wake up to.
He could be my wings to fly
in a big bird sky, hey let's be part of the machine. Part of the machine.
Mayhem, Maybe
When we're working nights, the village round

the old church becomes scary town.
All curtained windows and bolted doors
but never a eye to see
as us fairy folks sweep from the hill
Never caught us and never will.
Pulling roses and daffodils
mayhem in the high degree.
The blacksmith chased us all to ground.

They searched all night - we were never found.
The tinker boys and the sheriff's men
shaking the tallest tree.
And we sat and watched the women hide.
Laughed so much we split our sides.
Scattered horses that they would ride
We crossed through fields of midnight green

often heard but seldom seen.
Tore along hedges,stripping leaves
no-one could quite agree
whether we came from north or south.
We stole the screams from out their mouths
and go where no man would allow
Like scaly carp and feathered swan

to nature's world we do belong.
We ride the thin winds of the night
and set dark spirits free.
We terrify the mare and foal.
The fox stood still and far too bold.
So we strung him up, brush neatly folded
mayhem, maybe.
Overhang
Good morning, gentlemen. Why the uneasy frowns?

Too much everything and I can't recall. Did I let you down?
Nobody will answer me. Makes me feel that I want to die.
My mind is inclined to lie.
Oh, no - think I did it last night again.
Oh, no - been out on the overhang again.
My hotel room was a battleground.

How did I find my way?
My wallet's gone and my jacket's torn.
My memory's a hazy grey.
Do I seem to remember now, two creatures about eight feet tall?
No safety net to break my fall.
Oh, no - must have done it last night again.
Oh, no - crawled out on the overhang again.
Been out on the overhang.
Watching demons and spirits glide.

Heading out to the nearest star.
Better lead me back to the bar.
Oh, no - might do it tonight again.
Oh, no - crawled out on the overhang again.
Been out on the overhang.
Crawling out on the overhang.
Out of the overhang.
Kelpie
There was a warm wind with the high tide

on the south of the hill.
When a young girl went a-walking
and I followed with a will.
``Good day to you, my fine young lady
with your lips so sweetly full.
May I help you comb your long hair
sweep it from that brow so cool?''
Up, ride with the kelpie.

I'll steal your soul to the deep.
If you don't ride with me while the devil's free
I'll ride with somebody else.
Well I'm a man when I'm feeling

the urge to step ashore.
So I may charm you - not alarm you.
Tell you all fine things, and more.
Say goodbye to all your dear kin

for they hate to see you go
in your young prime, to this place of mine
in the still loch far below.
Living In These Hard Times
The bomb's in the china. The fat's in the fire.

There's no turkey left on the table.
The commuter's return on the six o'clock flyer
brings no bale of hay for the stable.
Well, the light, it is failing along the green belt
as we follow the hard road signs.
Semi-detached in our suburban-ness
we're living in these hard times.
Well the fly's in the milk and the cat's in the stew.
Another bun in the oven - oh, what to do?
We'll laugh and we'll sing and try to bring
a pound from your pocket.
Good day to you.
Oh, these hard times.
The politicians sat on the wall

and traded with the union game.
Someone slapped a writ on our deficit
not a penny left to our name.
Oh, the times are hard and the credits lean,
and they toss and they turn in sleep.
And the line they take is the line they make
but it's not the line they keep.
The cow jumped over yesterday's moon

and the lock ran away with the key.
You know what you like, and you like what you know
but there is no jam for tea.
Well the light it is failing along the green belt
as we follow the hard road signs.
Semi-detached in our suburban-ness
we're living in these hard times.
DISC 3:
Clive Bunker - Drums, hooter and charm bracelet, tracks 1 and 16
Glenn Cornick Bass, tracks 1 and 16
Martin Barre - Electric guitar, marimba, tracks 1 - 8 and 11 - 18
Barriemore Barlow - Drums, percussion, tracks 2 and 12 - 13
Jeffrey Hammond-Hammond Bass, tracks 2, 9 and 12
John Evans Piano, tracks 1 - 2, 12 - 13 and 16
Gerry Conway - Drums, percussion, tracks 5 - 8 and 17 - 18
Dave Pegg - Bass, mandolins, vocals, tracks 3 -8, 10 - 11, 14 - 15 and 17 - 18
Peter-John Vettese - Piano, synthesizer, tracks 5 - 8 and 17 - 18
David Palmer - Keyboards, orchestra conductor, tracks 2, 9 and 12 - 13
Don Airey Keyboards, tracks 3 - 4, 10 and 14 - 15
Doane Perry Drums, tracks 3 - 4 and 14- 15
Witch's Promise
Farm On The Freeway (live)
Thick As A Brick (live)
Sweet Dream (live)
The Clasp (live)
Pibroch (Pee Break)/Black Satin Dancer (Instrumental) (live)
Fallen On Hard Times (live)
Cheap Day Return
Wond'ring Aloud (live)
Dun Ringill (live)
Life's A Long Song
One White Duck/0^10 = Nothing At All
Songs From The Wood (live)
Living In The Past (live)
Teacher
Aqualung (live)
Locomotive Breath (live)
Rock Island
Ian Anderson - Flute, mandolin, keyboards, acoustic guitar, drums on tracks 2 and 7, vocals
Dave Pegg - Bass, acoustic bass, mandolin
Doane Perry Drums
Kissing Willie
The Rattlesnake Trail
Ears Of Tin
Undressed To Kill
Rock Island
Heavy Water
Another Christmas Song
The Whaler's Dues
Big Riff and Mando
Strange Avenues
Kissing Willie
Breaking hearts in a market town.
She eats filet of sole and washes it down
with sparkling wine.
Nice girl, but a bad girl's better.
Qualifies in both ways to my mind.
But now she's kissing Willie.
She shows a leg shows it damn well.

Knows how to drive a man right back to being a child.
Well, she's a nice girl, but her bad girl's better.
I can read it in her cheating eyes and know that in a while.
Well, she'll be kissing Willie. (My best friend, Willie.)
Willie stands and Willie falls.

Willie bangs his head behind grey factory walls.
Well, she's a nice girl, but her bad girl's better.
Me and Willie just can't help come, when she calls.
Now she's kissing Willie. (My best friend, Willie.)
The Rattlesnake Trail
I wear a hair shirt round my shoulder.
Got a cold stew in my spoon.
And I'm falling on my head, lifting feet of lead
now it's got me baying at the moon.
Well, there's a race on for tomorrow.
I'm stretching out for what might have been.
Going to come out from the night, got my second sight
play rough you know what I mean.
I'm going for the kill. I'm going tooth and nail
up that dusty hill on the rattlesnake trail.
Got the law laid down to the left of me.

Got the real world to the right.
Heading up through the middle with my cat and my fiddle
yeah, looking for a fight.
Going to ride hard in bandit country
on the blind side of the bend.
Keep my nose to the wind while the rabbit's skinned
bed down at the journey's end. (Be a rattlesnake.)
The rattlesnake trail.
I'm going on the rattlesnake trail.
Going to be with wolves in winter

run in angry packs by day.
But when you give a dog a bone, he has to be alone
growl, keep the other dogs away.
See that thin moon on the mountain.
See that cold star in the sky.
Going to bring them down shake them to the ground
put that apple in the pie. (Be a rattlesnake.)
Ears Of Tin
In the last hours of a sunset rendezvous
chill breeze against tide, that carries me from you.
Got a job in a southern city got some lead-free in my tank.
Now I must whisper goodbye I'm bound for the mainland.
Island in the city, cut by a cold sea.

People moving on an ocean. Groundswell of humanity.
Now the sun breaks through rain as I climb Glen Shiel

on the trail of those old cattlemen who drove their bargain south again.
And in the eyes of those five, five sisters of Kintail
there's a wink of seduction from the mainland.

Storm-lashed on the high-rise, their words are spray to the wind.
Blown like silent laughter. Falling on ears of tin.
Take my heart and take my brawn.

Take by stealth or take by storm
set my brain to cruise.
I can see the glow of the suburb lights.
I'm fresh from the out-world
singing the mainland blues.
There was a girl where I came from.

Seems a long time, long time, long time gone by.
Wears the west wind in her hair.
She calls from the hill yeah, she calls
in my mainland blues.
There's a coast road that winds to heaven's door

where a fat ferry floats on muted diesel roar.
And there's a light on the hillside and there's a flame in her eyes,
but how cold the lights burn on the mainland.

Storm-lashed on the high-rise their words are spray to the wind.
Blown like silent laughter. Falling on ears of tin
in my mainland blues.
Undressed To Kill
Working on the late shift, first drink of the day.
Pull a chair up to the table, have to look the other way.
What kind of place am I in? And who's this over here?
Shaking through the silver bubbles climbing through my beer.
Won't let it move me, but I can't sit still.
Could you meet the eyes of a working girl undressed to kill?
Staring through the smoke haze, plaid shirts in the night.

Well, I'm making sure that everything is zipped up tight.
Who's that jumping on the table? Putting tonic in my gin?
Brushing silken dollars on her cold white skin.
Could you meet the eyes of a working girl undressed to kill?
She could have been sweet seventeen. There again, well, so could I.
There was a tear drop sparkle on the inside of her thigh.
Going to fetch myself a cold beer. I've got to get a grip.
Find some place to touch down. Find a landing strip.
Can you meet the eyes of a working girl all undressed to kill?
Last one out is a cold duck. Padding down the road.

I wait outside, my motor running got a warm dream to unload.
Can I face her in the sunshine? In the harsh real light of day?
She walks out with recognition in her eyes I look away.
Couldn't meet the eyes of a working girl undressed to kill.
Rock Island
Savage night on a misty island. Lights wink out in the canyon walls.
Two old boys in a stolen racer. Black rubber contrails in the unwashed halls.
And all roads out of here, seem to lead right back to the Rock Island.
Rock Island.
I've gone back to Paris, London, and even riding on a jumbo to Bombay.
The long haul back holds faint attraction, but the people here know they're o.k.
See the girl following the red balloon: walking all alone on her Rock Island.
Rock Island.
Doesn't everyone have their own Rock Island? Their own little patch of sand?
Where the slow waves crawl and your angels fall and you find you can hardly stand.
And just as you're drowning, well, the tide goes down.
And you're back on your Rock Island.
Rock Island.
Hey there girlie with the torn dress, shaking: who was it touched you?
Who was it ruined your day?
Whose footprint calling card? And what they want, stepping on your beach anyway?
I'll be your life raft out of here, but you'd only drift right back to your Rock Island.
Rock Island.
Hey, boy with the personal stereo: nothing 'tween the ears but that hard rock sound.
Playing to your empty room, empty guitar tune,
No use waiting for that C.B.S. to come around.
'cause all roads out of here, seem to lead right back to your Rock Island.
Rock Island.
Doesn't everyone have their own Rock Island? Their own little patch of sand?
Where the slow waves crawl and your angels fall and you find you can hardly stand.
And just as you're drowning, well, the tide goes down.
And you're back on your Rock Island.
Rock Island. Rock Island. Rock Island. Rock Island.
Heavy Water
I walked out in the city night,
A burning in my eyes, like it was broad daylight.
And it was hot, down there in the crowd.
The stars went out behind a thunder cloud.
Chatter in the air, like a telegraph line.
Big drops hissing on the neon sign.
Thumping in my heart, and it's hurting me to see.
Smokestack blowing, now they're pouring heavy water on me,

pouring heavy water on me, pouring heavy water on me, heavy water.
She was a southern girl. We stared man to man.

I move like a stranger in this strange land.
She was a round hole, I was a square peg.
I watched the little black specks running down her leg.
Didn't seem to mind that dirty rain coming down
shirt hanging open. She was wet and brown.
pouring heavy water on me, pouring heavy water, pouring heavy water, heavy water.
What goes up has to fall back down.

It's no night to be out dancing in a party town
when it runs hot and it runs so wide
running in the street like a thin black tide.
Chatter in the air, like a telegraph line.
Big drops hissing on the neon sign.
pouring heavy water on me, oh, pouring heavy water on me,
pouring heavy water on me, oh, pouring heavy water on me,
oh, pouring heavy water on me.
Hope everybody's ringing on their own bell, this fine morning.
Hope everyone's connected to that long distance phone.
Old man, he's a mountain.
Old man, he's an island.
Old man, he's a-walking says
`Ì'm going to call, call all my children home.''
Hope everybody's dancing to their own drum this fine morning

the beat of distant Africa or a Polish factory town.
Old man, he's calling for his supper.
Calling for his whisky.
Calling for his sons and daughters, yeah
calling all his children round.
Sharp ears are tuned in to the drones and chanters warming.

Mist blowing round some headland, somewhere in your memory.
Everyone is from somewhere
even if you've never been there.
So take a minute to remember the part of you
that might be the old man calling me.
How many wars you're fighting out there, this winter's morning?
Maybe it's always time for another Christmas song.
Old man he's asleep now.
Got appointments to keep now.
Dreaming of his sons and daughters, and proving
proving that the blood is strong.
The Whaler's Dues
Money speaks. Soft hearts lose. The truth only whispers.
It's the whaler's dues.
I've been running on diesel. Been running on coal.

Running on borrowed time, if truth's to be told.
Two whales in the ocean, cruising the night
search for each other before we turn out their light.
Been accused of deep murder on the North Atlantic swell

but I have three hungry children and a young wife as well.
And behind stand generations of hard hunting men
who raised a glass to the living, and went killing again.
Are you with me?
Money speaks, soft hearts lose. The truth only whispers.

Now pay the whaler's dues.
Can you forgive me?
Now I'm old and I sit land-locked in a back-country jail

to reflect on all of my sins and the death of the whale.
Send me back down the ages. Put me to sea once again
when the oceans were full - yes, and men would be men.
Can you forgive me?
Big Riff and Mando
Marty loved the sound of the stolen mandolin.
Somebody took it on a dare in the night-time.
Run up to the radio, calling out to the wind.
Now, bring it, bring it back at least an hour before flight time.
It was a souvenir, but it was a right arm missing.
Swap a woodwork rhythm for a humbucking top line.
Big Riff, rough boy, wants to be a singer in a band.

A little slow in the brain box, but he had a quick right hand.
Run left, run right everywhere he look
nobody watching, no, but that was all he took last night.
Running on the power of a stolen mandolin.

Steal a little inspiration. Steal a little muscle.
Will he wake in the morning, wondering was it really worth it?
So make a little deal, Yeah, make a little hustle.
Ringing on the radio, got a proposition for those English boys.

I'll make the sing-song you can make the background noise.
One, two, three, four one bar and in.
Give you back the mando, if you'll let this singer sing tonight.

Steal a little inspiration. Steal a little muscle.
Will he wake in the morning, wondering was it really worth it?
So make a little deal, Yeah, make a little hustle.
Marty loved the sound of the stolen mandolin.

Big Riff took it on a dare in the night-time.
Now it's four o'clock, and we're waiting at the sound-check.
Looking for a face staring in from the sunshine.
We got two strong lawmen from the sheriff's office.
They're going to lift Big Riff before he plays the first line.
Big Riff, rough boy, wants to be a singer in a band.

Yeah, help him on the stage now, put that microphone in his hand.
Think hard, think right nothing in his mind
So Riff did a runner, but he left the mandolin behind. Marty loved the sound of his
mandolin.
Steal a little inspiration. Steal a little muscle. So make a little deal, Yeah, make a little hustle.
Strange Avenues
Strange avenues where you lose all sense of direction
and everywhere is Main Street in the winter sun.
The wino sleeps cold coat lined with the money section.
Looking like a record cover from 1971.
And here am I warm feet and a limo waiting.

Shall I make us both feel good? And would a dollar do?
But in your streets, I have no credit rating

and it might not take a lot to be alone just like you.
Heading up and out now, from your rock island.

Really good to have had you here with me.
And somewhere in the crowd I think I hear a young girl whisper:
"Are you ever lonely, just like me?"
Catfish Rising
Ian Anderson - Flute, acoustic mandolin, electric mandolin, electric guitar, acoustic guitar,
harmonica, percussion, vocals, drums and keyboards
Dave Pegg - Bass, acoustic bass
Doane Perry - Drums, percussion
Guest musicians:
Andy Giddings - Keyboards, tracks 1, 4 and 8
Foss Paterson - Keyboards, track 10
John "Rabbit" Bundrick - Keyboards, track 11
Matt Pegg - Bass, tracks 1, 4 and 7
Scott Hunter Drums, track 7
This Is Not Love

Occasional Demons
Roll Yer Own
Rocks On The Road
Sparrow On The Schoolyard Wall
Thinking Round Corners
Still Loving You Tonight
Doctor To My Disease
Like A Tall Thin Girl
White Innocence
Sleeping With The Dog
Gold-Tipped Boots, Black Jacket and Tie
When Jesus Came To Play
Night In The Wilderness (Bonus Track)
This Is Not Love
Winds howled. Rains spit down.
All these nights playing precious games.
Cheap hotel in some seaboard town
closed down for the winter and whispered names.
Puppy-dog waves on a big moon sea
snap our heels half-heartedly
and how come you know better than me
that this is not love.
No, this is not love.
Empty drugstore postcards freeze

sunburst images of summers gone.
Think I see us in these promenade days
before we learned October's song.
Out on the headland, one gale-whipped tree;
curious, head bent to see.
And how come you know better than me
Down to the sad south, smokey plumes

mark that real world city home.
Broken spells and silent gloom
ooze from that concrete honeycomb.
Puppy-dog waves on a big moon sea
snapped our heels half-heartedly
and how come you know better than me
Occasional Demons
Well, you got a big-jib crane waiting to pick you up.
Mmmm, you see those snakes that crawl, they're just dying
to trip you up.
Live out in sad shacks at the back of town.
Hold your breath while we do you down
`cos we're all kinds of animals coming here:
occasional demons too.
Well, you got a nice apartment here with appliances and CD.
We're gonna leave your stereo, but we'll have your soul for tea.
I'm not speaking of material things.
Gonna chew you up, gonna suck you in
Smokestacks, belching black, we're the have-nots in your shade.

How about a slice of life, how about some
human trade?
Eat at the best table in town.
No headwaiter going to turn us down
Roll Yer Own
Roll yer own. Don't mean you got no money.
Only that you got no opportunity to shake it with that friend of mine.
Roll yer own if you can't buy readymade;
you won't be satisfied when you feel the sudden need
to unwind.
You know what moves you in the wee hours
when there's nothing on the answerphone.
And if you don't get enough of that electric love
don't try to get by ---
roll yer own, roll it when there's no-one listening:
when those re-runs play on the late-night
black and white TV.
Roll yer own, roll it when there's something missing
and those wild cats howl, running in the moonshine.
Roll yer own: you got to hit that spot.

Roll yer own when your hands are hot.
Rocks On The Road
There's a black cat down on the quayside.
Ship's lights, green eyes glowing in the dark.
Two young cops handing out a beating:
know how to hurt and leave no mark.
Down in the half-lit bar of the hotel
there's a call for the last round of the day.
Push back the stool, take that elevator ride.
Fall in bed and kick my shoes away.
Rocks on the road.
Can't sleep through the wild sound of the city.

Hear a car full of young boys heading for a fight.
Long distance telephone keeps ringing out engaged:
wonder who you're talking with tonight.
Who you talking with tonight?
Rocks on the road.
Tired plumbing wakes me in the morning.

Shower runs hot, runs cold playing with me.
Well, I'm up for the down side, life's a bitch
and all that stuff:
so come and shake some apples from my tree.
Have to pay for my minibar madness.
Itemised phone bill overload.
Well now, how about some heavy rolling?
Move these rocks on the road.
Crumbs on the breakfast table.

And a million other little things to spoil my day.
Now how about a little light music
to chase it all away?
To chase it all away.
Sparrow On The Schoolyard Wall
You want to be a bookworm? You wanna be aloof?
You wanna sit in judgement, looking down from the roof?
Try a wee sensation: but first you have to want to join in.
You should be, should be raging down the freeway
with some friends from the mall.
Don't stay forever in your limbo: fly before you fall
little sparrow on the schoolyard wall.
So dress a little dangerous and modify your walk.

There's nothing wrong with sparrows, but try
to be a sparrowhawk.
Hunting in the evening and floating in the heat in the day.
You might, might acquire some predatory instinct.
Do the wolf pack crawl.
Well, I don't want to be your daddy.

Don't want to be your engineer of sin.
And I don't want to play the piper here.
I'm only banging on a mandolin
and anyway, you're just a little sparrow
on the schoolyard wall.
There's nothing wrong with learning. Nothing wrong

with your books.
So exercise some judgement. Too much broth can spoil the cook.
Feel a little sensation and know when it's time to join in.
You should be, should be raging down the freeway
with some friends from the mall.
Thinking Round Corners
All of you sit up in bed. Don't think in straight lines ahead.
Can't sleep? Head spin? Don't think in circles, it'll do you in.
Think back to the dream you had; no sense of being good or bad.
Jump to the left, jump to the right. Think round corners into night.
Let's go in wet corridors: dive down drains.

Draw strength from machinery, it's al] the same.
Thinking round corners. Think round corners, I say.
Pretty girl with neon eyes: best man between white thighs.
Bridegroom didn't know a thing: got his love in lights,
she wears two rings.
Think back to that dream you had.
Blue boy sorry, pink girl sad.
Yellow cow, big-eyed moon all coming round the corner soon.
Let's stand in rapids: cling to carnivals.

Spit life from the maypole in savage ceremony.
Draw strength from machinery, it's all the same.
Paper cowboys, tin drums banging where the white man comes.
Landowners with whips and chains but soft in bed amidst
warm rains.
Thinking back to the dream they had. Jack and Jill.
Jack the lad.
Homestead. Home free. How about leaving some for me?
Let's bathe in malt whisky: covet gold finery

through the eyes of a Jackdaw, dressed to the nines.
Draw strength from machinery, it's all the same.
Thinking round corners.
Still Loving You Tonight
It's a lonely life I live and I live this life to go
and if I leave you with one thing it's just that I want
you to know
I'll still be loving you tonight.
I left flowers on your table, left the lock on your door.
Staked a claim in your heartlands, put grain in your store.
Got fingers on the button of that telephone dial.

Call in and move your mountains, fill your spaces while
I'm still loving you tonight.
You want to know how I can leave you?

How can I move along this way?
Too much of a good thing can make you crazy
and it's a good thing that happened to me today.
Doctor To My Disease
I've been treated for mild depression
and I've been treated for growing pains.
I've been treated for hallucinations;
now I can see it all coming again.
Well, you can wind me up. Yeah, you can slow me down.
You can dig a little, and you can mess me around.
But there's one thing I should tell you, to which
you must agree:
There's no use you playing doctor to my disease.
Said it's no use you playing doctor to my disease.
I got no cure for this condition

that you've been causing me tonight.
Well, you put my heart in overdrive:
hand me the bullet I must bite.
You can stir me up and you can cut me down.
You can probe a little, push that knife around.
you must agree:
It's no use you playing doctor to my disease.
Do you have to break my engine

so you can fix it up again?
Tuned to crazy imperfection
just to score me out of ten.
Well, you can wind me up. Yeah, you can slow me down.
You can dig a little. Yeah, you can mess me around.
you must agree:
That it's no use you playing doctor to my disease.
Like A Tall Thin Girl
Well, I don't care to eat out in smart restaurants.
I'd rather do a Vindaloo: take away is what I want.
I was down at the old Bengal, having telephoned a treat
when I saw her framed in the kitchen door.
She looked good enough to eat.
(And I mean eat.)
She was a tall thin girl.
She looked like a tall thin girl.
She said, ``Whose is this carry-out?''
My face turned chilli red.
Well, I don't know about carrying out,
but you can carry me off to bed.
(And I mean bed.)
She moved like a tall thin girl.
Maybe I can fetch for it,
and maybe I can stretch for it.
I may not be a fat man and I'm not exactly small

but when it all comes down, couldn't stand my ground.
This girl was tall.
(And I mean tall.)
Big boy Doane, he's a drummer. Don't play no tambourine

but he's Madras hot on the bongo trot,
if you know just what I mean.
Stands six foot three in his underwear;
going to get him down here and see
if this good lady's got a little sister `bout the same size as me.
She looked like a tall thin girl.
Well, can I fetch for it?
Well, maybe I can stretch for it?
Well, am I up for it? Or do I have to go down for it?
White Innocence
She drifted from some minor festival.
Didn't look like any sumrner of love:
just a thousand weekend warriors in a muddy field.
She was the hand to fit my glove.
Funny thing, the innocence of the lonely.
Funny thing, the charm of the young.
See how she moves just like two angels (in white innocence).
Yet one of them is on the run.
The other's tapping at my car window
and I'm squinting through the sun
trying to see if she's some child of the nineties:
or just another dangerous fantasy of mine.
Yeah. White innocence.
She was white innocence.
A perfect hole was in her stocking:

it made a perfect window to her heart.
I could have moved among her waterfalls:
her misty curtains drawn apart.
Did she see warm safety in my numbers
to want to hitch a ride this way?
Felt like I was taking her to market now
to be sold as the last lot of the day.
Funny thing, the distance of the lonely.
White innocence.
She pressed the button, lowered the window:

let her hand trail in the slipstream of the night.
A frost from nowhere seemed to lick her fingers:
I could have warmed them, but the moment wasn't right.
Obvious, she was headed nowhere special:
yes, well it was even obvious to me.
I was doing some, some watching, some waiting:
she'd been here before, most definitely.
There was the promise of early bed-time.

There was the promise of heaven on earth.
Think I was sending out low-voltage electricity:
played it right down for what it was worth.
She turned and looked at me in white innocence
and with the clearest eyes of forever grey
she rested one small hand for a second on my knee:
I stopped the car. She walked away.
Funny thing, the wisdom of the lonely.
Away you go now.
White innocence.
Sleeping With The Dog
Her love is like a candle: you light it up at night.
Her heart is like a pack of cards: one chance to guess it right.
Sometimes I do.
She's got a tongue like a viper, but she can whisper like a dove.
Soft touch like brushed velvet: till she hits you from above.
And sometimes she does.
She leaves me breathing: down like a fallen log.

Just when I feel like dancing
I wake up sleeping with the dog.
And it goes: (woof) sleeping with the dog.
I have to guess at the mysteries of her unfathomable soul.

Guess when the time seems right
to make a broken spirit whole
and that time is due. C'm'on.
She leaves me breathing: down like a fallen log

and just when I feel like dancing
I wake up sleeping with the dog.
And it goes: (woof) sleeping with the dog.
Gold-Tipped Boots, Black Jacket And Tie
I'm banered and bruised. I got lines I can't use.
My head won't deliver. Well, I'm sold down the river.
But I'm turning again.
Yes, `n' I'm turning again.
Well, I'm turning again.
And I'm turning again.
Wearing gold-tipped boots, black jacket and tie.
Well, I've been second to none:

this horse was ready to run.
Now I'm has-been and used:
disarmed and de-fused
but I'm turning again.
And I'm turning again.
I'm turning again.
I'm egg over-easy

and I'm washing-up squeezy.
Appliance for sale:
fat wind in my sail
and I'm turning again.
When Jesus Came To Play
I was in my watering-hole with some ugly friends of mine
when he door came off its hinges like a cork from fizzy wine.
He said, ``My name is Jesus: I'm the leader of the band.
Got to set up my equipment, if you boys can lend a hand.''
Oh yeah. When Jesus came to play.
He set that bandstand jumping. Yeah, and he cranked it up so loud.

And he moved up to the microphone: had the attention of the crowd.
He said, ``My name is Jesus: going to turn your head around.
I'm going to make this easy. Got no time to mess around.''
`Ì got no twelve disciples, and I got no cross to bear.

If you thought they had me crucified, I guess you weren't there.''
Oh yeah. When Jesus came to play. When Jesus came...
He sang about three or four numbers, but we'd heard it all before.
We boys were getting restless: no girls were moving on the floor.
Those parables, they were merciless and the tables overturned.
And there were no minor miracles
but false prophets they were burned.
Well, maybe he was Jesus;
but his hair could have used a comb.
Long before he hit the last notes, we boys had all gone home.
Oh Jesus, is it really you?

Night In The Wilderness
I could he sitting on the left of you.
You'd be looking straight ahead.
If I was adrift right across from you,
you still would cut me dead.
I've had better deep discussions
with this plate of soft-shelled crab.
I'd put some spice in your rice.

You'd give me blues in the stew.
I'd give you catfish jumping.
You'd give me all this work to do.
Who's got the cheque on this hot dinner?
Who's got the tabs on the crab?
Another night in the wilderness:

should have been a night on the town.
Lesson in learning how to hold a conversation down.
I'm in splendid isolation, feel that heavy silence fall.
Got all this cut out for me to do.
Another night in the wilderness of you.
Here I am drinking you with my eyes.

You're looking at the gravy on my bib.
I go weak-kneed at the suggestion of you.
What's wrong with the cut of my jib?
Is there a lobster in the offing, or just a fifty dollar cheque?
Nightcap
Release date: 22. November 1993 (UK)
Disc 1:
Ian Anderson - Flute, balalaika, mandolin, Hammond organ, acoustic guitar, vocals
John Evans - Celeste, piano
Jeffrey Hammond-Hammond - Bass, backing vocals
Barriemore Barlow - Drums
First Post [Instrumental]

Animele [Instrumental]
Tiger Toon [Instrumental]
Look At The Animals
Law Of The Bungle
Law Of The Bungle Part II
Left Right
Solitaire
Critique Oblique
Post Last
Scenario
Audition
No Rehearsal
Disc 2:
Martin Barre - Electric guitar, marimba, tracks 1 - 8, 10 - 14 and 16 - 18
Barriemore Barlow - Drums, percussion, tracks 1 - 2 and 4
John Evans - Piano, tracks 1 - 2 and 4
Jeffrey Hammond-Hammond - Bass, track 1 - 2 and 4
David Palmer - Keyboards, orchestra conductor, tracks 4 and 9
Dave Pegg - Bass, mandolins, vocals, tracks 3, 5 - 8, 10 - 14, 16 and 18
Gerry Conway - Drums, percussion, tracks 6 - 7, 10 - 13 and 16
Peter-John Vettese - Piano, synthesizer, tracks 6 and 13
Doane Perry (drums) plays on tracks 3, 5, 8 and 14
John Bundrick - Piano, Hammond B-3 organ, tracks 3, 5 and 8
Scott Hunter Drums, track 17
Matthew Pegg - Bass, track 17
Paradise Steakhouse
Sealion II
Piece Of Cake
Quartet [Instrumental]
Silver River Turning
Crew Nights
The Curse
Rosa On The Factory Floor
A Small Cigar
Man Of Principle
Commons Brawl
No Step
Drive On The Young Side Of Life
I Don't Want To Be Me
Broadford Bazaar
Lights Out
Truck Stop Runner
Hard Liner
Look at the Animals
The tiny ant leaves his tiny ant drops in the sand,
And makes his home inside a rusty watering can,
Occasionally going out to look for bread and jam.
He runs into a sparrow who hasn't eaten for a week,

And later, quite contented, the sparrow cleans his beak,
Failing to notice pussy cat has come out to take a leak.
Our cat partakes of dinner when a sudden kangaroo
Emerges from the undergrowth and asks to use the loo.
Kangaroos aren't usually dangerous, for that would never do.
My goodness, will you look at all the animals queuing on the stairs!
Look at the animals in the zoo; how would you like to be one?
They're waiting to use the lavatory and putting chewing gum in each other's hair.
Look at the animals, look at you; well how would you like to free one?
Good gracious, will you look at all the animals playing with their tools!
Look at the animals, look at you; well how would you like to queer one?
Flying from the chandeliers and treading in their elephantine stools.
Look at the animals, two by two; aren't you glad to be one?
This kangaroo's a lunatic and his pouch is very full
Of pussy cats and penguins who can't fly as a rule,
But then neither could the pussy cat: he never went to school.
The kangaroo gets nervous when confronted by the size
Of an elephant named Simon who is always telling lies;
He swears he wears green corduroys and can button up his fly.
Presently, a fatter Simon's indigestion fails.
He regurgitates the whole damn mess into an aluminum pail,
And the tiny ant scuttles back inside his watering can
Occasionally going out to look for bread and jam.
Law of the Bungle
The tiger flashes sharpened teeth.
Bowler-hatted; summer briefs beneath his pinstriped skin.
To kill demands a business sense;
Economy moves non-residence approaching from down-wind.
Being a tiger means you laugh
Whenever lesser tigers have to eat meat that's infected.
Being a tiger means your mate
When overfed will defecate in places least expected.
Knowing a tiger means you must

Accept his promise of mutual trust
And offer him your throat.
Loving a tiger means you take second place to the cake you bake
Spoken: "and with undying servile obedience keep the stiffly starched collar of his
conference shirt spotless and remove daily the daubed bloody evidence of his dastardly
misdeeds from the otherwise immaculate elegance of his pinstripe tiger coat."
Law of the Bungle Part II
Spoken:
"Hello. This is `Law of the Bungle Part II'.
By the way, I'm Martin Barre;
but sometimes I'm an owl, and my feathers are really smooth,
and when I feel romantic I like to dress up in men's clothing.''
[Instrumental]
Left Right
The master playwright
urges you to play right/play wrong;
life is long and every night's the first night.
The wardrobe mistress

urges you to dress left/dress right;
what a mess, well, your underpants are too tight.
Who's on the stage door

to help you find the way in/way out?
It's not a sin to be knowing that you don't know.
When you breathe your last line

will you make your exit stage left/stage right?
Well, you might decide while there's still time.
You have an angel on your shoulder

but you wear the old god's horns.
And you dance around the maypole
while the vicar makes a toast
to the pagan celebration
and extends an invitation to us all
so he can save us when we fall.
Who's your leading lady?

Will you help to get her off the bus? It's best
to pass the test before you get too lazy.
Strike up the orchestra.

Take your cues on the up-beat/Beat down
Anyone who says he doesn't like the sound.
Critique Oblique
Critic of the black and white it's your first night.
The Passion Play gets in the way - spoils your insight.
Tell me how the baby's made, how the lady's laid,
Why the old dogs howl with sadness.
Spoken:
The blue thing in the ball leaves naught but a bloody footprint on the memory of last
summer's trip to Europe.
Did you buy a passport from the queen?
Spoken:
And your little sister's immaculate virginity wings away on the bony shoulder of a young
horse named George
who stole surreptitiously into her geography revision.
The examining body examined her body.
Post Last
One two three two
The editor lies screaming (baking in his waking dream),
Questioning "Who is God's favorite rock star this week?''
And will the front page pay take him?
The deadline for the headline is the breadline.
Paradise Steakhouse
I'd like to take you to the edge of every morning
on a magic eiderdown to a window chair.
In the Paradise Steakhouse where there's a cup of silver coffee,
steaming chrome reflections from the mist in your hair.
Try not to watch me (Try not to watch me)

Just call me after darkfall (Call me after darkfall)
I'll bring a whip to sow, my seed on your land.
In the Paradise Steakhouse there's a cup of silver coffee
A sheath of steel so you may hold my sword in your hand

I'll cut you, divide you into tender pieces
No wings to fly away upon my dear.
In the Paradise Steakhouse on a plate upon a table

I will carve your name with care to last the years.
I'd like to eat you (I'd like to eat you)

All fire will consume you (Fire will consume you)
Roast on the spit of love on this arrow true.
In the Paradise Steakhouse I'll taste every finger
Baking in the ashes 'til the flames rise anew
I'd like to take you to the edge of every morning

On a magic eiderdown to a window chair.
In the Paradise Steakhouse where there's a cup of silver coffee,
steaming chrome reflections from the mist in your hair.
Sealion II
Would you like to see my lion, my friend Cecil is damp and smooth
A damp smooth sea lion, yes, Cecil is a sea lion.
(Cecil is a sea lion)
Cecil is a clever sea lion, Cecil sometimes swims

And often sits (And balances multicolored striped balls?)
Yes, balances multicolored striped balls, Clever Cecil
(Cecil is a sea lion) (Cecil is a sea lion)
Cecil the sea lion is serene, he doesn't wear spectacles or a scarf

(No central heating or cement) Well, the whole ocean is Cecil's home
Piece Of Cake
Come running. Go for overkill. If you don't come now,
I'll be over the hill, all right?
Tell me, "All right.''
Got a sell-by date. Soon be out of stock.
Pop me in your trolley you can start my clock. Well, all right?

I could be on your shelf, could be the risk you take.
I'm a cup of hot coffee, I'm a piece of cake.
Piece of cake.
I'm the hot chicken in your superstore.

You can take me home if you can take some more, Well, all right?
I could be on your shelf, could be the bread you bake.
I can fill your larder, I'm a piece of cake.
Piece of cake.
Show me rosemary, I'll show her wild thyme.

See you at the checkout or on the credit line. Well, all right?
I'm your spicy filling, I'm your low-fat spread.
I'll be your smooth rubber, be your pencil lead, All right?
If you set me to simmer, if you grill my steak
you can bowl me over, I'm a piece of cake.
Piece of cake.
Silver River Turning
I walked down that boulder road,
through a child's eye saw places where I used to go.
Where I crawled barefoot with a fishing pole
to the rock that overlooked that steelhead hole,
but it's true silver river turning blue.
It was a small town in a smaller world.

Just a black dot on an old map with its edges curled.
Where they built their industries on the edge of town,
leaching chemicals from underground.
Now it's true that silver river turning blue.
Just got a late reaction. Face reality and stare it down.

Sometimes it's harder hanging on. Much easier to look around.
But I need that job.
Well, this place is no city: we're just small players here.
Like a million other heroes drinking poor man's beer.
We know what's right. We're just living it wrong.
But there's no easy answer in the green man's song.

What do you do? When your river's turning blue.
I walked down that boulder road,

through a child's eye saw places where I used to go.
Where I crawled barefoot with a fishing pole
to the rock that overlooked that steelhead hole,
but it's true silver river turning blue.
Just got a late reaction. Face reality and stare it down.

Sometimes it's harder hanging on. Much easier to look around.
But I need that job.
Crew Nights
Tearing down in double quick time to get the "A" truck shifted 'bout midnight.
The locker rooms are empty but the strobo tuners still spin with their pitching lights
And someone with a yellow pass gives out precise directions as to where and when.
And earmarked with a drumstick, young girls set to rendezvous, and be recognized again.
Tomorrow is an off-day, be in Baltimore by Thursday is the only law.
There's a suite down at the hotel reserved for making merry with connecting doors.
The lighting man's already improvised a bar and printed invitations to the ball.
Off-duty cops line corridors wearing tour T-shirts proudly and the band may even call.
Crew nights, no flashlights or folding knives,
Best boots and road suits and nine lives.
Feeling that it might be wrong to temporarily belong to the P.A. man.

Some angel from the midwest is regretting being undressed with no suntan.
His polaroid a-snapping, the head carpenter is rapping on the gates of dawn.
Sitting lonely with a warm beer the girl with dental braces wishes that she hadn't gone.
Crew nights, no bar fights or 'Reader's Wives',
Thin walls and late calls and nine lives.
Crew nights, no flashlights or folding knives,
Best boots and road suits and nine lives.
The Curse
Young Gladys was a silky maiden
at thirteen, she was going strong, yeah.
Oh, Gladys.
Nicely filled out, fully laden,

but down below there was something wrong, yeah.
Oh, Gladys.
Nobody told her about the secrets, that ladies have to hide
Mom had no words to describe the things, that happened inside.
Need someone to help me, I feel that there's a curse on me, oh.
Went down into the local disco,
For what used to be the one-and-nines, yeah,
Oh Gladys.
Felt a searching hand to frisk her,

Along the length of her water line, yeah,
Oh Gladys.
Now Gladys knew she was in no condition, in no mood to play

I cracked a knee in a soft spot, nothing had got in her way.
I want no one to touch me, I feel there's a curse on me, oh.
Directed down to the local drugstore
Got fixed up, now she's doing fine, yeah
Oh Gladys
Equipped with various kinds of apparatus

You know the feminine hygiene kind, yeah
Oh Gladys
Must have been a man to do this thing who won her fall from grace
That day he programmed Eve, you should have seen the smile on his face.
He said "You'll need someone to help you
When you feel like cursing me'', oh.
Rosa On The Factory Floor
She moves with machinery for the fancy sports car trade.
Part of the industrial process: she sees that they stay made.
She works from early A.M.. They work her to the bone.
When I call her in the evening, she's too tired to lift the phone.
Damned if I'll wait for her, and I'll be damned if I don't.
Damned if I only see that Rosa on the factory floor.
Signed on for the duration. They say she came from the East.
With her tool bag and her coveralls, to pay the rent at least.
She doesn't talk with workers on the rest of the line
and over in the canteen, she's alone most of the time.
Somewhere in her history is a lock without a key.

She doesn't trust the management and she won't trust me.
We're two different animals. We live jungles apart.
She circles round her freedom and I circle round her heart.
Oh, Rosa, oh, Rosa.
She moves with machinery for the fancy sports car trade.
Part of the industrial process: she sees that they stay made.
She works from early A.M.. They work her to the bone.
When I call her in the evening, she's too tired to lift the phone.
Oh, Rosa on the factory floor.
Spoken:
(Hey, Santa, pass us that bottle, will y....- oh, no, we've done that.)
A Small Cigar
A small cigar can change the world,
I know, I've done it frequently at parties
where I've won all the guests' attention
with my generosity and suave gentlemanly bearing.
A little flat tin case is all you need
breast-pocket conversation opener
and one of those ciggie lighters that look rather good
you can throw away when empty.
Must be declared a great success
My small cigars all vanish within minutes.
Excuse me, mine host, that I may visit a nearby tobacconist

to replenish my supply of small cigars and make the party swing again.
I know my clothes seem shabby
and don't fit this Hampstead soiree,
where unread copies of Rolling Stone,
well-thumbed Playboys
decorate the hi-fi stereo record shelves.
If you ask me they're on their way
to upper-middle-class oblivion.
The stupid twits, they roll their only
one cigarette between them.
My small cigar's redundant now
in the haze of smoking pleasure.
Call it a day,
Get the hell away,
Go down the cafe
For a cup of real tea.
By the tube station, there's a drunk old fool

who sells papers in the rush hour.
I hand to him ten small cigars.
He smiles, says, "Son, God bless you''.
A small cigar
Has changed his world, my friend
A small cigar
Has changed the world again
A small cigar, a small cigar,

a small cigar, a small cigar, a small cigar...
Man of Principle
One day he'll walk from out of this place.
You'll see a quiet determination on his face.
He'll toe no lines. Suffer no fools.
But he'll raise three cheers to the losing team from the other school.
A little dedication. A little pair of daddy's shoes to fill.
Compleat education. One day he'll be a man of principle.
And the battle's on. And he'll play to win.

Feel the blue blood rushing quick beneath his skin.
And grim they stand. And hard they fall.
Harder still, when their backs are up against the wall.
Gonna get your attention. But he's carrying his cross to the other hill.
With divine intervention, he can be a man of principle.
In the evening light, with a fair-ground girl

he stops himself as his head begins to whirl.
And he walks her home. And there's a kiss goodbye.
She feels a chill as she looks him in the eye.
Well, there's a time and a place now and it's not tonight she'll bend his will.
Slow realization she's looking at a man of principle.
Hung from the highest station by his old school tie undressed to kill
He could be a real sensation. But he's a man of principle.
A little dedication. A little pair of daddy's shoes to fill.
Compleat education. One day he'll be a man of principle.
Gonna get your attention. But he's carrying his cross to the other hill.
With divine intervention, he can be a man of principle.
Commons Brawl
All right and honorable gentlemen and lady too,
will kindly try to restrain themselves in derring-do
As verbal hard graffiti flies and echoes wall to wall
Our precious model of democracy,
it's the House of Commons brawl
One member from some dark mill town furious did cry,
as spittle frothed on folded chin to damn the lie.
Let's serve this brief amid the rush of boos and loud catcalls
Let's finish this right here and now
at the House of Commons brawl
Kick, punch went the government

as with jackets off they charged heaven-bent.
Scratch, gouge went the other side
as the party firmly did divide.
Another day in the lives of those who would guide us through,

it follows perhaps that we should by their example do,
but there again I think for less poor Guy went to the wall.
The wrong house but the right idea
to end the Commons brawl.
No Step
I looked out of my window, saw stencilled black,
No step, no step.
There were nervous mothers with children crying in the back.
No step, no step.
Someone bought me my ticket, now I'm on the wing.
Hope my angels are watching me, do I hear them sing?
No step, no step.
Those afterburners cut in and kicked us high.
No step, no step.
The thin air shimmered, the sun cut through and burned my eye.
No step, no step.
Someone bought me my ticket, now I'm on the wing.
Hope my angels are watching me, do I hear them sing?
No step, no step, no step.

No step, no step, no step, no step.
Give me a jet stream schooner or a crew-lagged goose.
No step, no step.
I'm a clear-air jockey when they turn me loose
No step, no step.
Someone bought me my ticket to the captain's seat.
Will the shakes soon leave me, will I find my feet?
No step, no step, no step.
No step, no step.
Drive On The Young Side Of Life
Your mother she protected you
And softened every blow
And brought you up to fear the worst
To be careful as you go.
And the learned educators

With dripfeed facts did fill
You up to here with reason
Well-meaning overkill.
If you find yourself a-growing

to be old before your time,
Get off the endless corridor
Set your soul out on the line.
Drive on the young side of life

When the pressure pains are building

And you're forced to join the crush
In the race to mediocrity
So respectable and plush.
And while the child within is raging

And threatens to break out,
Get off the endless corridor
Make a timely turnabout.
Drive on the young side of life,

Drive on the young side of life.

Drive on the young side of life.
I Don't Want to Be Me
Got a grand house out in the country.
Marble pillars holding the door.
Empty bottles lining the wall from the night before.
Got a Roller out in the garage.
But the wheels are stuck to the floor.
Got no reason to go anywhere, no friends call anymore.
I don't want to be me, I don't want to be me,
I know it's hard to see, but I don't want to be me.
Had me playing down at the palace.

I was declared the belle of the ball.
Made the boys take my goods and chattels away,
now I'm staring at an empty hall.
I don't want to be me, I don't want to be me,
I know it's hard to see, but I don't want to be me.
Pardon me I'm on my way.

Pardon me but I'm going.
Taking on the simple life and I feel the grass roots growing.
I'm going to ride the ragged road,
diamond spurs jangling into the sunset.
No circuits running overload Well maybe I'm not done yet.
Now there's nothing left in the cupboard

and three bears' been eating my soup.
My life is one big critical mess if you take a look.
And the butler's off in Ibiza on expense account gone berserk.
But I can't check out of this crazy world
without being a jerk I don't want to be me.
I don't want to be me, I know it's hard to see, but I don't want to be me.
Pardon me I'm on my way.

Pardon me but I'm going.
Taking on the simple life and I feel the grass roots growing.
I'm going to ride the ragged road,
diamond spurs jangling into the sunset.
No circuits running overload
Well maybe I'm not done yet.
No maybe I'm not done yet.
Broadford Bazaar
Dirty white caravans down narrow roads sailing.
Vivas, Cortinas, weaving in their wake.
With hot, red-faced drivers, horns' flattened fifths wailing,
Putting trust in blind corners as they overtake.
And it's "All come willing now,
Spend a shilling now,
Stack up the back of your new motor-car.''
There's home-dyed woolens, and wee plastic Cuillins
The day of the Broadford Bazaar.
Out of the north, no oil-rigs are drifting.

And jobs for the many are down to the few.
Blue-bottle choppers, they visit no longer.
Like flies to the jampots, they were just passing through.

Stack up the back of your new motor-car''
Where once stood oil-rigs so phallic
There's only swear-words in Gaelic
To say at the Broadford bazaar.
All kinds of people come down for the opening.

Crofters and cottars, white settlers galore.
And up on the hill, there's an old sheep that's dying,
But it had two new lambs born just a fortnight before.

Stack up the back of your new motor-car.''
We'll take pounds, francs and dollars from the well-heeled,
And stamps from the Green Shield.
The day of the Broadford Bazaar.
Lights Out
Last light's out. They're all abed
And something's in my room,
Creeping down towards me on the wall.
Daddy said it's just some flickering headlight through the gloom,
Making shapes through trees outside the hall.

But what the hell does he know?
He doesn't feel the dread
The cold restricting terror in the dark.
I've seen that silhouette before
Something the newsman said
Something about some monster in the park

It's you, you're the man on the TV screen.
It's you front page face of the dead.
Locked up in the light of day
At night come out to play
To terrorize me there above my bed.
The air is still and heavy now,

There's thunder in the sky.
He's dreaming up some message he can send.
I'm scared completely helpless
and I think I'm going to cry.
Are grownups brave or do they just pretend?
His face is growing clearer.

I can see his eyes glow red.
My teddy bear's the only friend I can feel.
The shadow's hand slips down the wall
And touches teddy's head
I now suspect that shadow will touch me.

It's you front page face of the dead.
Locked up in the light of day
At night come out to play
To terrorize me there above my bed.
It's you front page face of the dead. Locked up in the light of day
At night come out to play To terrorize me there above my bed.
Truck Stop Runner
Stopped off on a long drive.
Down from the high country.
Spent a long time sitting here,
Long time counting hot miles.

Ohh, oh I'd like a cup of black coffee and a piece of sweet cake.
But the girl in the print dress doesn't want my money she won't take it: she says
Oh she says.
Oh she says I just know you're a Leo,
I can tell you've got a lion's heart.
She went on in this way for a while,

Like some 60's sister playing a part.
Oh this cup of black coffee gonna do me just fine.
Through the dust in the mirror tiles I can see that door, Keep it close behind.
Oh she says.
She says, come on over to my house,
make a journey here sometime.
You know there's a party going on,
a ladder in my stocking you can climb,
There's a ladder you can climb.
Oh she looked so liberated.

She was looking fit to start.
She got this back to front and sideways,
wore her sleeve upon her heart.
Ohhh, oh, just one more coffee's 'bout all I can take.
Have to do a truck stop runner now.
I'm not man enough to make it,
She says. She says.
Oh she says.
You know there's a party going on,
a ladder in my stocking you can climb,
Stopped off on a long drive.

Down from the high country.
Spent a long time sitting here,
Long time counting hot miles.
Ohh, oh I'd like a cup of black coffee and a piece of sweet cake.
But the girl in the print dress doesn't want my money
she won't take it: she says
Oh she says.
Kick off those tired sports shoes

got a ladder in my stocking you can climb,
Truck stop runner.

I'll be a truck stop runner.
Truck stop runner.
Truck stop runner.
Hard Liner
Hard liner,
she brings ice when I bring fire.
She's a hard liner.
Tightrope cross Niagara. She'd cut the wire.
Never feel a thing.
Walked the sidewalk of another strange avenue.
Kicked my heels and wished my feet were in some other shoes.
But I'm not running
from that hard liner.
Well she brings ice when I bring fire.

She's a real hard liner.
How does she retain my heart's desire?
It's a funny thing.
Knows what she wants, knows how to get it, too.
Scares me with cold logic, scares me with the witch's brew.
But I keep on drinking.
Hard liner.
Hard liner.
I'm framed and I'm hanging on the wall.
She's a hard liner.
I'm like some big game trophy hat-stand in the hall.
But I remember warm and loving nights.
Pier-head restaurants,
Swaying mast-head lights
It's a funny thing.
Hard liner.
Yeah, she brings ice when I bring fire.
Hard liner.
Tightrope 'cross Niagara, don't cut my wire.
Hard liner, hard, hard liner.
She brings sun when I bring rain.
She's a real hard liner.
Yeah, we've got it all crossed up again.

Hard liner. Hard liner.
Now I don't think we can stay in the same town.
Roots To Branches
Ian Anderson - Flute, concert flute, bamboo flutes, acoustic guitar, vocals
Dave Pegg - Bass, tracks 3, 5 and 11
Doane Perry - Drums, percussion
Andy Giddings - Keyboards
Roots To Branches
Rare And Precious Chain
Out Of The Noise
This Free Will
Valley
Dangerous Veils
Beside Myself
Wounded, Old And Treacherous
At Last, Forever
Stuck In The August Rain
Another Harry's Bar
Roots To Branches
Words get written. Words get twisted.
Old meanings move in the drift of time.
Lift the flickering torches. See gentle shadows change
the features of the faces cut in unmoving stone.
Bad mouth on a prayer day, hope no one's listening.
Roots down in the wet clay, branches glistening.
True disciples carrying that message

to colour just a little with their personal touch.
Home-spun fancy weavers and naked half-believers
Crusades and creeds descend like fiery flakes of snow.
In wet and windy priest-holes. Grand in vast cathedrals.

High on lofty minarets or in the temples of doom.
I hope the old man's got his face on.
He'd better be some quick change artist.
Suffer little children to make their minds up soon.
Rare And Precious Chain
Rare and precious chain
Do I have to tell you, tell you once again?
Under red lights, on soft nights, it all comes back to you.
Rare and precious chain
Binds me to your soul round gently pulsing veins.
Shackled tight, feel love's bite coming back to you.
No gold of fools.
No hostage taking.
No engagement rules.
To leave you forsaken.
Tiny beads of sweat

thin diamond glistening, glistening around your neck,
forgotten rooms, dark catacombs
they all come back to you.
No crock of glittering prizes.

No sharply worded telegram.
No excuses for the word-weary.
No excuses for who I am.
It's a rare and precious chain.

Around your neck I place it, place it once again.
Drawn finger tight, feel love's bite coming back to you.
Under red lights, on soft nights, it all comes back to you.
Rare and precious chain.
Out Of The Noise
Glued to the kerbstone, staring.
Frozen at the stop-sign too.
See that crazy suicide mongrel.
He's going to try to cross that avenue.
Old dog of experience,
ripping through the black and yellow cabs,
dodging rickshaws and the bicycle boys.
He's got his mind on someone else's dinner
Over the road, round the corner, out of the noise.
Lives down in some cool, cool basement

Sharing with a family of bouncy, ratty little guys
Works to a discipline of ritual undertakings
Sleep, eat, and gentle exercise
Old dog of experience,
Some towns I know, he could end up in a restaurant

wrong side of a table for two.
It's enough to send him running, running for cover.
Back into traffic, what's a poor dog to do?
Old mutt of experience,
This Free Will
She peeled from a stretch black snake
which slipped up to the hotel door.
Darting looks from piercing eyes
The stir of memory and then no more.
Well, you know how I have to believe
She can almost remember my name.
It's been a long time coming, babe

Long time loose amongst foreign hills
Shaking my faith in this free will.
Years ago in a coastal town,

mosquitoes buzzed in her hair.
Schooldress torn and bare feet brown
Then the rains came and she wasn't there.
You're closing your doors on me
when you had almost remembered my name.

Shaking my faith in this free will.
Sharp points in an ink black sky

Faint words collide, then are lost.
I'll follow you beneath this dome
Win you back at any cost.
I know we were children then,
but you can almost remember my name.

Well, let's be children still
Don't shake my faith in this free will.
Don't shake my faith in this free will.

Valley
Wake hard in the morning.
See the young girl milking.
Stream rushing by on a bed of stone.
Old goats and sandstone cracking
All containing
Squeezing that river like it squeeze your bones.
In the long red, red valley people live here too long.
In the long red, red valley they only sing the valley song.
Some bad people living further down the valley,

Not easy for us to do good trade.
We got snowmelt, snowmelt sweet water.
They got that valley road that they made.
In the long red, red valley people dying here too long.
Holding hands on the hillside.

Showing love to your brother
your sister and your mother
but we hate those people down the valley.
Has anybody seen Moses?

Get him off that mountain.
Bring back the tablets of stone.
It's a wise, wise prophet who keeps his own council.
Yeah, leave the other man's wife alone.
In the long red, red valley people live here too long.
Wake hard in the morning.

See the young girl milking.
Stream rushing by on a bed of stone.
Old goats and sandstone cracking
All containing
Squeezing that river like it squeeze your bones.
In the long red, red valley people living here too long.
In the long red, red valley they only live the valley song.
In the long red, red valley people dying here too long.
In the long red, red valley they only know the valley song.
Dangerous Veils
Desert candle in a tented space
throwing softer shadows on a covered face.
Sister, silent to the likes of me
Pay my respects to her propriety.
Is this some crazy woman here,

dancing behind her thin black veil?
Am I misreading those mysterious eyes?
Duet impossible to harmonize.
I'm not inviting any stiff reaction.

I'm not one for naming holy names.
And I won't peek behind those dangerous veils.
Though you might hate me just the same.
Name of the Father ringing in her head

Thinking over what the prophet said.
Words and tradition bind her in their spell.
Don't drink the water from this holy well.
I'm not inviting any fierce reaction

and I'm not one for naming holy names.
I won't peek behind those dangerous veils.
Desert candle in a tented space

Softer shadows on a covered face.
Sister, silent to the likes of me
I tip my hat to her propriety.
I'm not inviting any fierce reaction

and I'm not one for naming holy names.
I won't peek behind those dangerous veils.
Beside Myself
Small child messing down, messing down.
in the streets of Bombay.
Cities like this have no shame, no shame;
indeed, why should they?
Out in the middle distance, several tragedies are playing.
I'm beside myself.
Big sister, can you hear him, can you hear him?
I'm beside myself.
Big sister, can you see him cry, see him cry?
I'm beside myself.
I saw you taking money in the shadows

in the shadows by the station there.
I'll wish you up a silver train

to carry you to school, bring you home again.
Strip off that work paint and put a cleaner face on.
I'm beside myself.
Hollow faced mother with her babe in arms,

babe in arms-looks through me.
Behind forgotten charms,
forgotten charms to soothe me.
Between the guilt and charity
I feel the wimp inside of me.
I'm beside myself.

Out in the middle distance, still more tragedies are playing.
I'm beside myself.
I'm so proud of you

Swimming up from the deep blue.
Which one of me do you run to?
I'm beside myself.
Small child messing down, messing down.

in the streets of Bombay.
Cities like this have no shame, have no shame;
indeed, why should they?
Out in the middle distance, several tragedies are playing. I'm beside myself.
Wounded, Old And Treacherous
A walk on the quiet side, late in the day
Don't mean to get in anybody's way.
The Gods seem willing: sun's in the sky.
Old crows cawing as the straight crows fly.
There was a time when love was the law.
There was a time for the tooth and the claw.
Last rites given, no holds barred.
Heaven Express on my credit card.
Now let me draw the jungle line

I won't cross yours if you don't cross mine.
Won't make trouble, I don't need no fuss.
But I'm wounded, old and I'm treacherous.
Allow me to draw the jungle line

you cross it once, you cross some friends of mine.
They won't make trouble, they don't need no fuss
but they're wounded, old and they're treacherous.
In the crisp of evening, on sacred ground

Ghosts of fathers pushing moonbeams round.
Big cats prowling inside your head
They left for China; better left for dead.
Let me draw the jungle line

I won't cross yours if you don't cross mine.
Won't make trouble, I don't need no fuss.
But I'm wounded, old and I'm treacherous.
A walk on the quiet side, late in the day

Don't mean to get in anybody's way.
The Gods seem willing: sun's in the sky.
Old crows cawing as the straight crows fly.
There was a time when love was the law.
There was a time for the tooth and the claw.
Last rites given, no holds barred.
Heaven Express on my credit card.
living mountains going to shake that town

big mother calling you from underground.
She don't want trouble, she don't need no fuss. But she's wounded, old and treacherous.
At Last, Forever
So why are you holding my hand tonight?
I'm not intending to go far away.
I'm just slipping through to the back room
I'll leave you messages almost every day.
And who was I to last forever?
I didn't promise to stay the pace.
Not in this lifetime, babe
but we'll cling together:
some kind of heaven written in your face.

Well, am I feeling so cold to the touch?
Do my eyes seem to focus
on some distant point?
Why do I find it hard to talk too much?

I'm not intending to go far away.
I'm just slipping through to the back room
I'll leave you messages almost every day.
Stuck In The August Rain
Brings jasmine tea on a painted tray
and bends to kiss my frown away.
But I'm still still stuck in the August rain;
stuck out in the cloudburst once again.
The cover's on, the coast is clear.

We're all battened down, only us here.
She walks between the lines
and she can read my signs.
Stuck out in the August rain:

Out in the cloudburst once again.
Single-minded in my gloom.
I appear to revel in this darkened room.
She walks between the lines
and she can read my signs.
Stuck out in the August rain:

Out in the cloudburst once again.
Another Harry's Bar
Wet wind on the sidewalk: I'm staring at the rain.
Walking up the street, yeah, and walking down again.
And my feet are tired and my brain is numb.
See that broken neon sign saying, hey, in you come.
Got the scent of stale beer hanging, hanging round my head.

Old dog in the corner sleeping like he could be dead.
A book of matches and a full ashtray.
Cigarette left smoking its life away.
Another Harry's bar -- or that's the tale they tell.
But Harry's long gone now, and the customers as well.
Me and the dog and the ghost of Harry will make this world turn right.
It'll all turn right.
God's tears on the sidewalk: it's the mother of all rain.

But in the thick blue haze of Harry's, you will feel no pain.
And you will feel no soft hand slipping on your knee.
You don't have to pay for memories, they will all come free.
It'll all turn right.
Now when Harry was a young man, Harry was so debonair.

He walked a bouncy step in his shiny shoes.
And when Harry was a young man, well, Harry could walk on air.
He mixed a mean cocktail and he talked you through the late news.
You want to hear some great news?
Harry's still here.
Wet wind on the sidewalk: I'm still staring at the rain.

Walking up the street, and I'm walking down again.
And my feet are tired and my brain is numb.
See that broken neon sign saying, hey, in you come.

It'll all turn right. Another Harry's bar.
And another Harry's bar.
And another, and another Harry's bar.
Dot Com
Ian Anderson - Flute, acoustic guitar, bamboo flute, bouzouki, vocals
Martin Barre - Electric guitar, acoustic guitar
Andy Giddings - Hammond organ, piano, accordion, chromatic and qwerty keyboards
Jonathan Noyce - Bass
Doane Perry Drums
Spiral
Dot Com
Awol
Nothing @ All [Instrumental]
Wicked Windows
Hunt By Numbers
Hot Mango Flush
El Nino
Black Mamba
Mango Surprise
Bends Like A Willow
Far Alaska
The Dog-Ear Years
A Gift Of Roses
Silence - Bonus Track: The Secret Language Of Birds
It All Trickles Down (Additional Track released on Bends Like A Willow Single)
Spiral
Kilometers from nowhere on a scented avenue -
Lined with poppy girls.
I didn't stop, stop to say hello.
Curious vendors - waving bric-a-brac -
Looked me over -
Thought it best, best that I should go.
Don't wake me: I'm falling.

Slow spiral into morning.
Who's out there? Can't hear you.
Ears covered - early warning.
Alarm bells ringing.
Time to make my peace with the dreary day.
I waited atbles - I was tipped in roubles.

Wine to water
Was the best that I could do.
Wild office parties split the silence.
Loaves and fishes at an empty table laid for two.
Down the spiral, spinning madly.

Gathering momentum
On a disneyesque adventure ride.
I fly in colours from richer palettes.
Famous artists running scared as worlds collide.
Dot Com
It's a wide world out there
So much wider than imagined
I can't quite put my finger on the pulse
Of your heart softly beating
Just beneath the raw silk sheen
That reflects the tints of autumn from the hills.
So punch my name.
And in case you wonder -
I'll be yours - yours, dot com.
Executive accommodation
Bland but nonetheless appealing
Waiters discretely at your beck and call
Place the tall sun-down potion
Lightly by your velvet elbow
While you compose a message on the wall.
So punch my name.
With your handmade leather valise

Packed and ready, ready waiting
Showered and dressed down lightly for the heat
Gice a clue; leave a kind word
Hint as to a destination
A domain where our cyber-souls might meet.
So punch my name.
Awol
Stormy-eyed on the edge of dawn:
nose pressed against the triple glaze.
Floor to ceiling, wall to wall,
silent traffic streams both ways.
Along the fussy freeway drivers
dream of sunday barbecues.
Of a sudden, seems I can barely
face my self: no face to lose.
Call the bosses. Call supervisors.
Won't be in today to work for you.
E-mail that girl who's working nights.

She can dress down for this wind and rain.
Leave her new korean compact:
let some cabbie take the strain.
Take a shower. Take big espresso.
Take to the hills, and take a view.
Little black dress stretching over
hard crystal peaks: soft valleys too.
Call the bosses. Call for nurses.
Unfit today to work for you.
No wet excuses. Absent without leave.

I'll be her dayshift driver: exotic engineer.
Stormy-eyed on the edge of night:

(December, eastern time: late afternoon.)
Atlantic City tight behind.
Trump Casina calls pontoon.
Gristle-burger, frazzled fries
end this romantic interlude.
Tomorrow morning's sweet awakening
could hardly prove to be as rude.
Make the journey. Make amends.
Work some hasty overtime in lieu.
No wet excuses. Absent without leave.

I'll be her dayshift driver: exotic engineer.
Wicked Windows
I review my past through wicked windows framed in silver
and hung in toughened glass, upon my face, around and over.
Now and then: memories of men who loved me.
No stolen kiss - could match their march on hot coals for me.
I have walked a line both faint and narrow, hard to follow.

Caught up in circumstance. Harsh truth for history to mellow.
Through my eyes: loyalties and obligation
magnified. Obedience: the better fellow.
Better not remember me. Don't mis my passing.

Fierce winter fails to ruffle my icy sleep.
We never quite vanish. No wet soft surrender.
Still waiting: bad blood running in close families.
I laughed like any child - although you might find that strange
and christmas was my favourite holiday.
Christmas was my favourite holiday.
I am not alone in seeing the world through wicked windows

while others hide likewiese behind this vulnerable squinting.
It's in the stare: it's in the silent scrutinizing.
Strip you bare: I ofer you no more disguising.
Better not remember me. Don't miss my passing.

Fierce winter fails to ruffle my icy sleep.
We never quite vanish. No wet soft surrender.
Same bad blood running in new families.
Hunt By Numbers
Hey little buddies:
soft and silky night walkers.
Dangerous species -
Tiptoe menace long grass stalkers
on my bed:
no butter melting in your jaws.
Bonding monster -
Lethal weapon wearing claws.
Let's go out to hunt by numbers.
Tabby, spotted, black as coal -

Serval, Margy, Caracal.
Moggie in the moonlight listens:
whiskered sensory miracle.
Felis, befriend us -
Egyptian Mau - Freya's familiar.
Long in the future -
Cloned disciples, the castle guard.
Now, let's go out and hunt by numbers.

Hot Mango Flush
Hot mango flush.
Ladies with ice cream hair -
Gyroscopic pink neon beams -
Everybody's happy about something.
The crowd moves like a flock of startings: they
switch direction as one.
Jive on the jukebox - Jack and Joker
split the night air with whoop and holler.
Faint aroma - wood smoke, old fish,
diesel harbour, roadside mongrel,
painted man with buttons barely
holding, bursting belly bulging.
Doe-eyed ragamuffin mumbling -
Scolded for some vague infraction.
Stole a penny candy-coloured
sweetheart kiss down at the market.
Down at the market all the world
seems to simmer:
Hot mango flush.
El Nino
As one, wet merchants turn their eyes towards the west.
Trade winds falter as if in dire consequence.
Freezing fish to fry, fail to materialise.
Christ-child, blood-warm current sends to touch the skies.
El nino.
Bathing in uncertainty, another age

seems to wing from T.V. screens in weather rage.
Savage retribution makes for a headline feats.
Planet-warming, opinion-forming headless beast.
El nino.
Cold thrust tongue extends its dark and watery touch.

Forces gather, martial stand against the rush.
Wily child in mischief here to make his play.
Leaves toys for little sister on another day
El nino.
Black Mamba
Hand in the snake pit - black mamba chase.
Head through the lion's cage - head on a plate.
Two feet on the hot coals - last dance at the ball.
Blindfold on the tightrope - whenever you call.
Be my slippery slider, Black Mamba crawl over me.
Dark thoughts of the sleepless - hung out to dry.

Slip through the bedclothes - unblinking eye.
Long tongue flickering - fixed stare grip.
Sweet venomous potion, held to my lip.
Be my slippery slider, Black Mamba crwal over me.
A tropical whisper. A sibilant kiss.

Soft strike teasing. Dangerous bliss.
Mango Surprise
Hot Mango Flush

Bends Like A Willow
She's catching the wind: the gentlest of breezes.
It's a sensitive passage she's sailing -
Through stormy straits, navigates my unfathomable failings.
She rises before me, reading me clearly.

Empty nest left pressed in the pillow.
She can shift, she can sway
and bend like a willow.
I'm swept in the riptide, caught in a fish trap.

Gift-wrapped in my soft self centre.
Summer sun leaves me as one who can only taste winter.
She's a good, a good God-send: she can bend like a willow.
With a fully armed angel to cover me quickly.

I'm cool under enemy fire.
If I fall, she can crawl right under the wire.
When I'm caustic and cold, she might dare to be bold -

ease me round to her warm way of thinking:
fill me up from the cup of love that she's drinking.
And I find, given time. I can bend like a willow.
She bends like a willow.
Far Alaska
Placing people in their dreamscape
with fantasies of foreign fields
Lofty spires all well appointed
In off-season special deals.
To far Alaska: down to Ria in the Carnival

Norwegian fjords in the ever-light of Solstice call
A part of me might travel with you

in a freebie bucket seat for one
Business First - at last, forever
Hopeless thoughts of flying fun
Now get me out of here I cry in air rage psycho-doom

I'm only dream-arranging from the safety of my room
Pick a place or stcik a pin in

any corner of the sphere
Post me cards and tell me nicely
Say you wish that I was here
To far Alaska: down to Rio in the Carnival

Norwegian fjords in the ever-light of Solstice call
The Dog-Ear Years
Rusted and ropy.
Dog-eared old copy.
Vintage and classic,
or just plain Jurassic:
all words to describe me.
Relaxed in the knowledge

that happily present
are all things to sustain me,
nurture and claim me:
roll back the mileage.
You have settled beside me.

To the far and the wide of me.
A matter of choosing,
of finding and losing
on the rough ride with me.
Take whisky with water,

kick stones down the gutter.
Think back to long days with
stale breath recycled in my face.
Rattling through airways -
plastic on cold trays.
Watching through windows,
deep landscapes below
await another time and space.
There must come some time

to walk through the night line.
Hands tight: heads high.
These are the dog-ear years.
Don't turn back. Don't linger.
For God's sake keep moving.
Primitive shadows sidle beside.
A Gift Of Roses
I count the hours: you count the days.
Together, we count the minutes in this Passion Play.
Walk dusty miles. And I ride that train
on a first class ticket, just to be with you again.
Picking up tired feet. Back from a far horizon.

Cleaned up and brushed down. Dressed to look the part.
Fresh from God's garden, I bring a gift of roses:
To stand in sweet spring water and press them to your heart.
Like the Kipling cat, I walk alone -

Never inviting trouble, never casting the stone.
But this badge of honour is of tarnished tin.
Lightyour guiding beacon to bring this fisher in.
The Secret Language Of Birds
This sparkling wine is all but empty.
Too late for trains and no taxis.
I know the feeling. Seems all too contrived.
There was no master plan but the fact is:
you must stay with me and learn the secret language of birds.
A tentative dawn about to be breaking

on a Rousseau garden with monkeys in hiding.
The truth of the matter, yet to be spoken
in words on which everything, everything's riding.
Now stay with me and learn the secret language of birds.
Circled by swallows
in a world for the weary.
Courted by warblers; wicked and eloquent trilling.
Lie in the stillness, window cracked open.

Extended moments, hours for the taking.
Careless hair on the pillow, a bold brushstroke.
Painted verse with a chorus in waiting.
Stay with me and learn the secret language of birds.
It All Trickles Down
There's a dragon-tail swishing behind tonight.
Poison's rising. I'm up too tight.
I might not be responsible
for the things that I might do.
My tanks are full and my dogs are loose.

Bees in my bonnet. Stew in juice.
Saut-simmer, shallow-fry
when it all trickles down to you.
It all trickles down.
Yes it all trickles down.
Well it all trickles down,
from me to you.
My day was rough, don't care about yours.

I put muddy feet on your polished floor.
A goose to cook, a job that I'm
well qualified to do.
And it all trickles down.
Well it all trickles down
from me to you.
Would be the one, would be the tea on toast.

Would be the Son, would be the Holy Ghost.
If this is not believable
then you've just had one too few.
Would be the mad Jack to your Queen of Spades.

A little Mac in your burger trade.
One dead-cert consequence -
it all trickles down to you.
And it all trickles down.
Well it all trickles down
from me to you.
There's a dragon-tail swishing behind tonight.

Poison's rising. I'm up too tight.
I might not be responsible
for the things that I might do.
My tanks are full and my dogs are loose.
Bees in my bonnet. Stew in juice.
Saut-simmer, shallow-fry
when it all trickles down to you.
It all trickles down.
Well it all trickles down,
from me to you.
The Jethro Tull Christmas Album
Release date: 13. October 2003 (UK)
Ian Anderson - Vocals, flute, acoustic guitars, mandolin, piccolo, percussion, all tracks
Martin Barre - Electric guitar, acoustic guitar, all tracks
Andy Giddings - Keyboards, accordion, bass, organ, all tracks
Doane Perry - Drums, percussion, tracks 1, 4, 6, 8, 10, 12 and 14
Jonathan Noyce Bass, tracks 2, 5, 9, 11, 13 and 15
David Pegg - Mandolin on track 3 and bass guitar on track 4
James Duncan Drums, tracks 2, 5, 9, 11, 13 and 15, and percussion on track 3
The Sturcz String Quartet arranged by Laszlo Bencker, Gbor Csonka - 1st violin, Pter
Szilgyi - 2nd violin, Gyula Benk - viola, Andrs Sturcz - cello, track 10
Birthday Card At Christmas

Holly Herald [Instrumental]
A Christmas Song
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen [Instrumental]
Last Man At The Party
Weathercock
Pavane [Instrumental]
First Snow On Brooklyn
Greensleeved [Instrumental]
Fire At Midnight
We Five Kings [Instrumental]
Boure [Instrumental]
A Winter Snowscape [Martin Instrumental solo]
Birthday Card At Christmas
Got a birthday card at Christmas: it made me think of Jesus Christ.
It said, I love you in small letters. I simply had to read it twice.
Wood smoke curled from blackened chimneys. The smell of frost was in the air.
Pole star hovered in the blackness. I looked again: it wasnt there.
People have showered me with presents. While their minds were fixed on other things.
Sleigh bells, bearded red suit uncles. Pointy trees and angel wings.
I am the shadow in your Christmas. I am the corner of your smile.
Perfunctory in celebration. You offer content but no style.
That little baby Jesus: he got a birthday card or three.

Gold trinkets and cheap frankincense. Some penny baubles for his tree.
Have some time off for good behaviour. Forty days, give or take a few.
Hey there, sweet baby Jesus: Lets share a birthday card with you.
Last Man At The Party
Sister Bridget by the stair: a glass of wine and shes almost there.
Cousin Jimmy at the door: another beer and hes on the floor.
Friends and neighbours come around,
waste no time were heaven-bound.
But not before we raise a glass to good camaraderie.
Stinky Joe from down the street fell right over his own three feet.
Hes doubled up in the outside loo, to taste again the devils brew.
Friends and neighbours come around,
waste no time were heaven-bound.
But not before we raise a glass to good camaraderie.
So make yourselves jolly under mistletoe, holly and ivy.

Get to it and be in good cheer.
And when its all over: pigs gone to clover
Will the last man at the party wish me a happy New Year.
The house is jumping, suppers up. Curried goat in a paper cup.

Forks of plastic, knives of tin: who cares what state the goat is in.
Someone with the gift of song
has brought his pal to sing along.
Now theyre turning up old Frank Sinatra on the stereo.
First Snow On Brooklyn
I flew in on the evening plane.
Is it such a good idea that I am here again?
And I could cut my cold breath with a knife.
And taste the winter of another life.
A yellow cab from JFK, the long way round.

I didnt mind: gave me thinking time before I ran aground
on rocky memories and choking tears.
I believe it only rained round here in thirty years.
Now, its the first snow on Brooklyn and my cold feet are drumming.
You dont see me in the shadows from your cozy window frame.
And last night, who was in your parlour wrapping presents in the late hour
to place upon your pillow as the morning came?
Thin wind stings my face: pull collar up.

I could murder coffee in a grande cup.
No welcome deli; theres no Starbucks here.
A dime for a quick phone call could cost me dear.
And the first snow on Brooklyn paints a Christmas card upon the pavement.
The cab leaves a disappearing trace and then its gone.
And the snow covers my footprints, deep regrets and heavy heartbeats.
When you wake youll never see the spot that I was standing on.
Some things are best forgotten: some are better half-remembered.

I just thought that I might be there on your, on your Christmas night.
And the first snow on Brooklyn makes a lonely road to travel cold crunch steps that echo
as the blizzard bites.
Ian Anderson
Solo Releases
Walk Into Light
Release date: 18. November 1983 (UK)
Ian Anderson - Vocals, guitars, flute, bass, drum programming, sequencing
Peter-John Vettese - Synthesizers, piano, blouse vocals
Fly By Night
Made In England
Walk Into Light
Trains
End Game
Black and White Television
Toad In The Hole
Looking For Eden
User-Friendly
Different Germany
Fly By Night
It's hard to say I'm sorry.
May we just forget about today.
You see, I fly by night.
I fly by night.
I laid my love beside the door

and left you sleeping on the floor.
So long. I fly by night,
I fly by night.
And though you might think it's too bad of me

I have to leave you with used memories.
I have no stomach for the dawn.

I feel I should be moving on
and so I fly by night.
Now lady luck's deserted me.

The ghosts of love stand clear to see.
They also fly by night.
Strange figures in the dark.

Did Cupid strike and leave his mark?
It seems his arrows fly by night.
They fly by night.
Let's fly.
Made In England
Somewhere in a town in England
lay a babe with a curious smile.
He was of your father's children.
Born each side of a dry-stone mile.
He grew up through the schools and factories,

Brunel's tunnels and bridges bold.
Grey towers built high on that Kingdom
with apartments still unsold.
Somewhere in a town in England.

Could be Newcastle, Leeds or Birmingham.
And were you made in
England's green and pleasant land?
He accepts no unemployment
and is to indeterminate station bred.
Is possessed of skills and reason.
Flies the flag upon his head.
Watches the democratic process

grind it's way through the Commons cold,
filled with fiery infiltrators
who would pave the streets with England's gold.
Walk Into Light
Close in, move out to where you want to go.
There's a crowd out there handclapping slow.
We're all powered up, switched on, the rig is tight.
Step into joy. Walk into light.
Never mind what some people say.
They're going to love you anyway.
Shake off that nervous twitch and feel your strength.

Stand astride the width and walk the length.
Those super-troopers fired and burning bright.
Stand tall and be yourself.
You can do it for your health.
Maybe a circus ring, a disco floor.

Do like we do. And do some more.
A crowded office or a party night.
Trains
Here I am at the end of the day
with a cup of cold coffee
from the station buffet.
On trains, on trains I seem
to spend my life on trains.
See the blue suit banker in the ticket line.

Got an Evening Standard with Playboy
hidden behind.
On trains, on trains he seems
to spend his life on trains.
Time after time.

Was I just dreaming?
Did I help you aboard?
Full passenger service ---
let me help with the door.
Sit down take the weight off your feet.
There's a train full of people I'd like
you to meet.
On trains, on trains we love
to spend our lives on trains.
Join the secret world of trains.

Feel the pleasure. Touch the pain.
Drift into yesterday.
Once and again

I was just thinking.
We could meet sometime
on the 17.30 where
I usually find
my friends at the end of the day.
May we pay your fare, lady?
We should like you to stay
in our train. On trains ---
you'll have to spend your life
on trains.
I hear there's an office party on the 18.05.

You'll be home for Christmas if they
take you alive from the train.
Those trains, we have to spend our lives
on trains.
Once and again

I was just thinking.
We could meet any time
on number two platform
where I usually find
my friends at the end of the day.
On trains, trains, trains.
End Game
I'm slipping into grey.
And I was (in my way) good to you.
And you were good for me.
Bye bye my love.
Going to play the end game.
It's growing kind of still.

You know there always will be a dream
waiting for you when
sleep comes around.
I had to play the end game.
Bless us all. I must say

it was good, you know.
Keep me in mind for
a re-match in warm snow.
The faces at the door

couldn't have looked more lost to see
me waving as I brush
away a tear.
Gone to play the end game.
Black And White Television
I looked in the mirror then
saw my face in a dream.
With eyes sharp as diamonds
blessed with clear vision.
Things were not as they seemed.
Black and white television
stared back from the wall.
Is that my life?
Am I here at all?
Down in the High Road, see

motor cavalcades glide
past shopwindow dressers
desperately covering
all the parts they can hide.
Black and white television
stares at me again.
Is that their lives?
Even dummies pretend.
The truth is so hard to deny.

The answer is here.
The screen never lies.
Black and white television.

It's the right television.
Show me it's all a dream tonight.
The boys on the corner sulk

in their Suzuki haze.
In primary colours
(each year more startling)
but they still fade to grey
on black and white television.
It's sweeping the land.
Is that your life?
Do you understand?
The truth is so hard to deny.

The answer is here.
The screen never lies.
Back the right television.
Hard to fight television.
Show me it's all a dream tonight.
Toad In The Hole
I walk along the Strand
to catch the late ride home.
Shuttle through the evening gloom
knowing I forgot to phone.
The back door's open.
There's a chill blowing in.
Take your warm hands off me.
Let the night begin.
Shush your mouth.
Listen to me.
I won't say nothing ---
just let me be your
toad in the hole.
Kicking through the wet leaves lying

all along the Station Road.
Past tired graffitti wailing,
raw emotion to unload.
There's coal in the fireplace
and money in the bank too.
Deep-pile carpets, tinsel wallpaper.
Still got the back room to do.
Don't be late.
Got a day's work behind me.
Feel a little devastated
but my nights are assigned to you.
Toad in the hole.
No tom-cat creeping, now

could ever be so bold
to hang around our place tonight
when I come in from the cold.
There's a straight-six in the garage
and some fine wine to cool.
Labour-savers in the kitchen,
room in the garden for a pool.
Shush your mouth.
Let imagination run
here in bed-sit heaven where all the best wishing's done to warm toad in the hole.
Looking For Eden
As I drove down the road to look for Eden
saw two young girls but left them standing there.
They were too late to get home on the underground
and probably too drunk, too drunk to care.
Can anyone tell me the way to Eden?

I'll ask them there, have they a job for me.
I'm not a fussy man, I can weed and hoe.
I'll be her Adam, she can be my Eve.
And where on earth are all those songs of Eden.

The fairy tales, the shepherds and wise men.
Just one old dosser lurching down Oxford Street
to spend his Christmas lying in the rain.
Don't anybody know the way to Eden.

I'm tired of living my life in free-fall.
They say it's somewhere out on the edge of town.
Perhaps it isn't really there at all.
Looking for Eden.

User-Friendly
Do we inhabit some micro-space
and interface through wires.
Dance on a printed circuit board
throw the software to the fires.
My memory's slim --- so volatile
but I'm learning.
Plug yourself in. Stay for awhile.
Un-discerning.
And on dusty terminals

finger me lightly do.
And QWERTY is the name of love
printed on the V.D.U.
Cut yourself free. We're all alone
communicating.
Don't bother me with arithmetic ---
I'm waiting.
User-friendly.
That's what I am to you.
I have to break out of here.

Trapped in my hardware cell.
And come to you as you sleep tonight,
take you back into my hell.
Binary joys and digital sighs
so appealing.
I'm one of the boys and it's only
your mind that I'm stealing.
User-friendly.
That's all I am to you.
Different Germany
The lights are down in Germany
and Germany is closed to me
different somehow this time.
The airport's stiff, cold corridors

ring empty beats through hollow feet
that I find to be mine.
Different Germany.
History repeats somehow.
Different Germany.
Afraid to know you now.
And past my eyes with leathered gaze

stare clean-cut boys all dressed as men
in sharpened uniform.
Who turned the clock? (Moved on or back)
And what dark chill is gathering still
before the storm.
Out in the street a tableau double-glazed

with laughing girls whose fastened smiles
are clearly not meant for me.
Divinities: Twelve Dances With God
Ian Anderson - Concert flute, alto flute, bamboo flute, wooden flutes, whistles
Andy Giddings - Keyboards, orchestral tones and colors)
Doane Perry - Tuned and untuned percussion
Dougles Mitchell - Clarinet
Christopher Cowie - Oboe
Jonathon Carrey - Violin
Nina Gresin - Cello
Randy Wigs - Harp
Sid Gander - French horn
Dan Redding - Trumpet
Album features only Instrumental Tracks, therefore there are no lyrics for this release.
In A Stone Circle
In Sight Of The Minaret
In A Black Box
In The Grip Of Stronger Stuff
In Maternal Grace
In The Moneylender's Temple
In Defence Of Faiths
At Their Father's Knee
En Afrique
In The Olive Garden
In The Pay of Spain
In The Times Of India (Bombay Valentine)
Release date: 06. March 2000 (UK)
Ian Anderson - Vocals, guitars, flute, bouzouki, mandolin, percussion, piccolo
Andy Giddings - Keyboards, accordion, electric bass. marimba, organ, percussion, piano
James Duncan - Drums
Gerry Conway - Drums)

The Little Flower Girl
Montserrat
Postcard Day
The Water Carrier
Set-Aside
A Better Moon
Sanctuary
The Jasmine Corridor
The Habanero Reel
Panama Freighter
The Secret Language Of Birds, Pt. II
Boris Dancing [Instrumental]
Circular Breathing
The Stormont Shuffle [Instrumental]
This sparkling wine is all but empty.
Too late for trains and no taxis.
I know the feeling. Seems all too contrived.
There was no master plan but the fact is:
you must stay with me and learn the secret language of birds.
A tentative dawn about to be breaking

on a Rousseau garden with monkeys in hiding.
The truth of the matter, yet to be spoken
in words on which everything, everything's riding.
Now stay with me and learn the secret language of birds.
Circled by swallows
in a world for the weary.
Courted by warblers; wicked and eloquent trilling.
Lie in the stillness, window cracked open.

Extended moments, hours for the taking.
Careless hair on the pillow, a bold brushstroke.
Painted verse with a chorus in waiting.
Stay with me and learn the secret language of birds.
The Little Flower Girl
Down at the church the flower girl sits. Legs innocent, apart.
I make the picture puzzle fit to start your heart.
Painted sister stopped beside. A word upon her saintly lip.
Perhaps admonishing the child inside the open slip.
I don't know where she might go when she runs home at night.
It's for the best: I wouldn't rest when I turned out the light.
No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream
just an old man's model in a pose from a magazine.
I have touched that face a dozen times before. And I have let my pencil run.
Laid down washes on a foreign shore, under a hot and foreign sun.
My best sable brushes drift the soft inside of her arm.
Her chin I tilt, her breasts I lift. I mean no harm.
I close the door. She is no more until the next appointed hour.
Northeastern light push back the night: painted promises in store.
No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream
just an old man's model in a pose from a magazine.
Down at the church my flower girl sits. Legs innocent, apart.

I make the picture puzzle fit to start your heart.
My golden sable brushes drift the soft inside of her arm.
Her chin I tilt, her breasts I lift. I mean no harm.
I mean no harm. I mean
Montserrat
Fires on the mountain, and the dogs bark.
Crash of the ocean swelling: crickets in the dark.
The temperature is rising. The village gets no sleep.
It's hardly surprising, given the hot company they keep.
Somebody's home in the ash-fall margins;

Somebody's life in the lost and found.
Breaking news from the hotel Vue Pointe.
Sinking feeling, sink another beer down.
Hey, Jimmy. What you doing here?

Looking up at the high cloud cover, so far and yet so near.
Flying in with the chopper. Lieutenant of the crown.
Tell the boys from that CNN, the good cops have come to town.
Angry island, no-one's listening. Shamrock villa, green to grey.

Down in the swamp, iguanas glistening.
Toast tomorrow, if not, today.
Hey, Jimmy. What you doing here?

You a scientist? You a newsman? Or simply come to feel the fear?
The temperature is rising. And we're in too deep.
There really is no point in disguising the hot company we keep.
Postcard Day
My eyes are white circles above cheekbones on fire:
pale hand gripping my pen.
Rounding up to the zero, adding infinite fractions,
letting nine become ten.
Two pink doves strut the shingles
picking crumbs from the breakfast I saved
for you dear. And I wish you were here
on this postcard day.
Focus on the fine indeterminate line

where the sky meets the sea.
Desperate midweek words, banal and absurd
freely flow out of me.
Well, I may be a hostage to summer
but I'm a hostage, not a slave.
And I'm clear that I wish you were here
Precious cargo of flotsam: mixed memories on an ocean tide

swim madly with spice from the orient
on a mystery watery carpet ride.
But with the sun going down, the wind goes around;
blows them back out of mind.
My eyes are white circles staring down past the point

of my restless pen.
While the ghosts of my youth all sworn to the truth
call my name again.
Two brown legs don't make a summer.
But two brown arms couldn't keep me away.
Well, my dear, I wish you were here
The Water Carrier
Crystal fountain springing from the hill.
It irrigates your soul. You may drink your fill.
Water of life, carried high.
One hand upon the gallon jar. Feel her fix my eye.
Every good traveller's for the taking.

All good money for the making.
Seller's market: wet appeal.
Water carrier - let's make the deal.
Covered face and black pool eyes.

Between us, no words spoken: no words to the wise.
Here's to another time and a drink somewhere.
Plush on a Nain carpet; on a caf chair.
Set-Aside
Hard black crows bobbing where once ran deep furrows.
Frazzled oak silhouetted in her ivy dress.
Winter sun catches dog fox through thin hedges:
throws his long shadow north to the emptiness.
Farmhouse in tatters; shuttered and battered.

Even lovers don't go there these last few years.
Spider-web windows on set-aside heroes
standing lost in a landscape of tears.
A Better Moon
I see you better now, shaded in deeper blue.
Hardly needing to carry the find-your-way lamp
down to the river.
Tonight flies a better moon.
Sad water buffalo lie fast near the shallows;

a splash revealing the fly-catching fishes.
Dark Gods silently watching.
I guess you've known lovers here, compliant in passion;

softly laid in the old reed bed, harshly
lit in the noon sun.
Now cloaked in this milky light, new as the virgin dawn,

shrouded sweetly in all kinds of mystery,
you turn, smile and then are gone.
Sanctuary
Dear uncle sold her into the purest kind of slavery.
Hood-eyed little middlemen profited from damaged goods
along the way.
Good angels brought her back to a last Nepal summer.
Debased, hollow-faced, a smile might become her.
Now she's cosied up, cosied up and comforted
in the warm flush of September.
Gone before winter.
Wondering as to might-have-beens.
Somebody's daughter in sanctuary, waiting.
Seen through softer cage of kindness, far and further still away,
from time-warp Victorian zoos
where staring ice cream gameboys play.
Big paws, worn claws and swishing tails.
More damaged goods in the market sales.
Too proud for anger, too late for hate: resigned in dignity.
Gone before winter.
Purring might-have-beens.
Somebody's kitten in sanctuary, waiting.
Somebody near you in sanctuary, waiting.

The Jasmine Corridor
In all my lives, I never knew anyone like you before.
Woke up one day, swore I heard the sound of heaven knocking on my door.
And after all these years long passing,
time to reflect, no time for wasting.
Walking down the jasmine corridor.
Reflecting echoes of quiet laughter.
In all my life, I was never better served than I was served by you.
And in my way, hope you agree I tried to serve you too.
Out on the headland I stepped once unsteady.
You there to catch me , I breathe more freely.
Hand in mine down the jasmine corridor.
Through all my life, I chased flitting illusions at a faster pace.

Never stopped to think: the moment was for seizing, had myself to face.
You made my bed to lie in, stately.
Mad cats, grandchildren, here more often lately.
The final view from the jasmine corridor.
The Habanero Reel
Cool in the corner, tom cat sitting
on the edge of the yard; sand-flies flitting.
Orange order on a field of green.
Smothers me to smithereens.
Rum and cola, ice cubes crashing.
Jumping beans and brown eyes flashing.
Long hair swinging, tell me how d'you feel?
Well, hot and fancy, it's the habanero reel.
Troubled skin? Pour oil upon it.

She's fit to burn in her new Scotch Bonnet.
Spice up anybody's stew.
Frogs and goats and chickens too.
Barefoot in the sunshine.

Kicking empty beer cans down on the high tide line.
Big wave nearly float your dress away.
And I'm thinking that it's just another day:
just another day.
Feel that hot rush start its tickle.

Sweat is rising, taste buds prickle
with ears of bat and eye of eagle.
It's just as well it's strictly legal.
Panama Freighter
Night close in on a shanty town.
Panama freighter wearing rusty brown.
She sails tomorrow and she's homeward bound.
Head up on a lumpy sea.
I'm not the only lonely planet rider

in this one horse town, I'm thinking.
And I won't over-rate or patronize you.
I know we're as different as chalk and cheese;

as black hole winters and salad days
and I wouldn't like your mother much anyway.
But it's not her I'm taking home with me.
Don't intend to dress you in silver threads

like some trophy in sublime seclusion.
Won't try to educate or civilize you.
Night close in on a shanty town.

Panama freighter wearing rusty brown.
She sails tomorrow and she's homeward bound
and you're bound to come home with me.
On the Panama freighter with me.
The Secret Language Of Birds, Pt. II
No buzz words, fuzzy fudge words,
so freeze those goalposts, don't take the Admiral on board.
This Hardy's not for kissing
Expression, no explosion,
or whispered promises in clich or in rhyme.
Instead let's talk the secret language of birds.
Right time but the wrong idea.

Well, you're making it all sound just the same.
Try taking it up a key like that Nightingale
still over there in Berkeley Square.
Do we have problems of communication?

There's something I don't know and you can't explain it to me.
Let's talk the secret language of birds.
Step out of the circus now.

Learn a new trick and make it stick.
Finger tracing on misty window:

I'm reading loud and clear this salacious semaphore,
as you leave me standing at the station.
Give it to me - the big dawn chorus:
no whispered promises in clich or in rhyme.
Let's talk the secret language of birds.
Right time but the wrong idea.

Well, you're making it all sound just the same.
Circular Breathing
Pick up my wings and fly
into a Constable sky.
Look down on the world and try
to make you out on the distant ground.
Lonely toy in a lost toy-town.
Suspended in spiral sounds -
Sounds of circular breathing.
I'm a kite on a silver thread.

Daring lightning to strike me dead.
Harsh echoes of things you said
banished me to a thinner space
with unholy ghosts of your bedroom face.
Hands cupped to my ears to place
the sound of circular breathing.
Matchbox cityscape below -

I watch Lowry matchstick figures go.
Caught in the timeless flow of discreet silence.
Rupis Dance
Ian Anderson - Vocals, bamboo flute, guitars, accordion, percussion, bass guitar, acoustic guitars,
piccolo, wooden flute
James Duncan - Drums, track 1, 10 and 12
David Goodier - Stand-up bass, tracks 2, 6, 7, 8, 10, 11, 13
Leslie Mandoki - Drums and percussion, track 3 - 7 and 12, udu, track 10
Laszlo Bencker - Keyboards, track 3 - 4, keyboard, piano and hammond B3 organ, tracks 5 and 10,
keyboards, mellotron and moog, track 6, piano track 12
Ossi Schaller - Guitar, track 3, electric guitar, track 6
George Kopecsni - Guitar, track 3, electric guitar, track 6
The Sturcz String Quartet - track 3, 4, 10
John OHara - Accordion, track 7 and 12, keyboard, track 11
Andrew Giddings - Keyboards, track 10, bass and keyboard, track 12, Keyboards and bass, track 14.
Martin Barre - Electric guitar, track 14
Andrew Giddings - Keyboards and bass, track 14
Doane Perry - Drums, track 14
Calliandra Shade (The Cappucino Song)

Rupi's Dance
Lost In Crowds
A Raft Of Penguins
A Week Of Moments
A Hand Of Thumbs
Eurology [Instrumental]
Old Black Cat
Photo Shop
Pigeon Flying Over Berlin Zoo
Griminelli's Lament [Instrumental]
Not Ralitsa Vassileva
Two Short Planks
Birthday Card At Christmas (bonus track from Christmas Album)
Calliandra Shade (The Cappuccino Song)
I sit in judgement on the market square.
I have my favourite table and I have my chair.
Natives are friendly and the sun flies high.
All kinds of crazy waiters they go drifting by.
Come, sit with me and take decaf designer coffee.

Come, laugh and listen as the ragamuffin children play.
Lame dog and a black cat, now, they shuffle in the shadows.
You got cappuccino lip on a short skirt day.
Hours last forever in the Calliandra shade.

Conversation going nowhere and yet, everywhere.
Kick off those sad shoes and let the bare toes tingle.
Slip off the shoulder strap: loosen the thick black hair.
Electric afternoon and shrill cellphones are mating.

Lame dog is dreaming, dreaming of a better life
where bed is fluffy pillows, table scraps are filet mignon
flicked indiscretely by the lazy waiters knife.
Rupis Dance
She dances through the flower-filled room
Sea-green eyes a-sparking.
Or are they blue? The message clear:
Seduce the master, winking.
Dainty feet circles inscribe

Upon the frozen parquet.
Arabesque in compound time:
Stately Pavane or Boure.
Sultry smile, come hither gaze

Black hair softly shining.
Calls me up to half-lit bed.
Sweet cloud with golden lining.
Oh, so young with ageless smile

Born of ungodly maker
Draws me: moth to candle bright
Fiery pleasure-seeker.
She dances through the flower-filled room

Sea-green eyes a-sparking.
Its Rupis dance: the message clear.
Her movement does the talking.
Lost In Crowds
I get lost in crowds: if I can, I remain invisible
to the hungry mouths. I stay unapproachable.
I wear the landscape of the urban chameleon.
Scarred by attention. And quietly addicted to innocence.
So, who am I? Come on: ask me, I dare you.

So, who am I? Come on: question me, if you care to.
And why not try to interrogate this apparition?
I melt away to get lost in this quaint condition.
At starry parties where, amongst the rich and the famous

Im stuck for words: or worse, I blether with the best of them.
I see their eyes glaze and they look for the drinks tray.
Something in the drift of my conversation bothers them.
So, who am I? Come on: ask me, etc.
In scary airports, in concourses over-filled,

I am detached in serious observation.
As a passenger, I become un-tethered when
I get lost in clouds: at home with my own quiet company.
Herald Tribune or USA Today. Sauvignon Blanc or oaky Chardonnay.

Asleep for the movie. Awake for the dawn
dancing on England and hedgerows
embossed on a carpet of green. I descend and
forgive me I mean to get lost in crowds.
A Raft Of Penguins
A raft of penguins on a frozen sea.
Expectant faces look down on me.
Shuffle uneasy. The whistler plays.
Counting eleven, they begin to pray.
Tenuous but clinging, the missing link

Joins us, closer than we might think.
Some half remembered coarse jungle drum
A naked heart-beat, trill and hum.
This worlds no stage for the faint at heart.

Each symphony, a sum of parts.
Each overture, a sweet foreplay.
Lets crash and burn some other day.
Bonded in terror or suspicion deep

Tentative tiptoe or giant leap
Call down the angels to guide them in
A raft of penguins take to the wing.
A Week Of Moments
A week of moments a clutch of days
Ten thousand minutes of a Passion Play.
Medley of quavers informs the tune.
Its all too much: over all too soon.
Sweet condensation on chilling wine

Travelers palm, flamboyant tree
Fast photos ripped and lost consign
A week of moments to faint memory.
A week of moments plucked from the page

Found far horizons, a sunset stage.
Suitcases bulge, in silence packed
A chapter closed: no looking back.
The lightest touch upon my arm

No fierce restraint, no call to stay.
Hushed room maids glide like pawns to king
With pool attendants in chess piece array.
A Hand Of Thumbs
My hand of thumbs is shaking
I am so glad to meet you
All tongue-tied and twisted
My lips stuck like glue
More than a lifetime to say, How are you?

More than an ocean to cross becalmed.
Less than a second to sink in silence.
Yours truly, I remain disarmed.
Saw you peeping from the corner.

Your eyes seemed to call hello.
Im all too easily mistaken,
My feet unsteady as they go.
Was I a suave and confident trickster

I would sweep you up and carry you down
To raspberry meadows under diamond skies
and just mess around. Just mess around.
Old Black Cat
My old black cat passed away this morning
He never knew what a hard day was.
Woke up late and danced on tin roofs.
If questioned Why? answered, Just because.
He never spoke much, preferring silence:

eight lost lives was all he had.
Occasionally sneaked some Sunday dinner.
He wasnt good and he wasnt bad.
My old black cat wasnt much of a looker.

You could pass him by just a quiet shadow.
Got pushed around by all the other little guys.
Didnt seem to mind much just the way life goes.
Padded about in furry slippers.

Didnt make any special friends.
He played it cool with wide-eyed innocence,
Receiving gladly what the good Lord sends.
Forgot to give his Christmas present.

Black cat collar, nice and new.
Thought hed make it through to New Year.
I guess this song will have to do.
My old black cat.

Old black cat
Photo Shop
A Morris Minor, a caf noir
Banana smoothie, snails in a jar.
Three dodgy sailors, a girl on skates
A little too muscled from doing weights.
A family wedding, a sushi bar

Sand in the Seychelles, karaoke star.
Lads on the razzle get lost in love.
Paddington station, rain clouds above.
The crumpled sheets of a long hot summer.

Stored images like an acorn, drop.
Squirreled away, but still remembered
by the man in the photo shop.
Rush hour on Praed Street: behind the glass

a picture process, in one hour fast.
Intimate portraits of topless wives
flashed indiscretions: snap-happy lives.
Pigeon Flying Over Berlin Zoo
Im thinking free - like the bird
flying over, over the animals
in the zoo. How do you do?
Whats it like to be in there? Think about it.
Youre locked behind wires.

Safe and warm - under house arrest protection
from the wild, wild storm and tempest
raging here on the outside. Think about it.
Pigeon I. Pigeon toed.

Im pigeon-friendly as pigeons go.
Pigeon lonely. Pigeon English.
Whats it like to be in there? Think about it.
Harsh spaces. Empty freedom.

Scary concept. Wrong side of the window.
Which one of us will wake imprisoned
come tomorrow? Think about it.
Give it due consideration.

Weigh it up. Kiss me quickly.
Pigeon friendly. Let me in there
to be with you. Mull it over. (Think about it.)
Not Ralitsa Vassileva
Dinner table chattering classes
tell all we need to know.
Like it. Lump it. Dig it. Dump it
on your late, late show.
And do you think youre Ralitsa Vassileva?

Youre just hand-me-down news in a cookie jar.
Its a long way from here to CNN in America
and a red-eyed opinion too far.
Dish the dirt or dish the gravy.

Spill the beans to me.
Sinking fast in terminal boredom
Feigned interest flying free.
And do you think youre Ralitsa Vassileva etc.
Talking monkey, breaking news junkie, tragedies to reveal.

Light and breezy, up-beat squeezy, close in to touchy-feel.
Pass the Merlot, dance the three-step

Cut to a better chase.
Align yourself with no proposition
and simpler thoughts embrace.
Lets talk about me. Lets talk about you.

In a world of private rooms.
Hide awhile from dark stormbringers
sad messengers of doom.
Sadly, you cant be Ralitsa Vassileva etc.
And do you think youre Ralitsa Vassileva etc.

Two Short Planks
Find some way to square the circle.
Feet slipping, sliding on the level.
Connect to reason, is there anybody there?
Drum it in to me now if you dare.
Triangles by Isosceles.
Principles by Archimedes.
Amo, amas; even amat
make for one less way to skin the cat.
Two short planks

Try my luck on another day
Must be thick as
two short planks
Thats about all that I have to say.
Two short planks

Pop the question: I sit the test
Must be thick as
two short planks
Spin me round till I come to rest.
They say truth comes flooding if you let it.

But what happens if I just dont get it?
Im blissful in my sweet ignorance
and delight in my incompetence.
Two short planks Try my luck on another day Must be thick as two short planks Thats
about all that I have to say.
Two short planks Pop the question: I sit the test Must be thick as two short planks Spin
me round till I come to rest.
Thick As A Brick 2
Release date: April 3, 2012 (UK)
Ian Anderson vocals, flutes, acoustic guitars
Florian Opahle electric guitar
John O'Hara accordion, Hammond organ, piano, keyboards
Pete Judge trumpet, flugelhorn, tenor horn, E-flat tuba
Ryan O'Donnell additional vocals
David Goodier bass guitar, glockenspiel
Scott Hammond drums, percussion

DIVERGENCE:
Interventions, parallel possibilities

Pebbles Thrown
From A Pebble Thrown Pebbles Instrumental
Might-have-beens
Gerald the Banker
Upper Sixth Loan Shark Banker Bets, Banker Wins
Gerald Goes Homeless
Swing It Far Adrift And Dumfounded
Gerald The Military Man
Old School Song Wootton Bassett Town
Gerald The Chorister
Power And Spirit. Give Till It Hurts
Gerald, A Most Ordinary Man
Cosy Corner Shunt and Shuffle
CONVERGENCE:
Destiny, fate, karma, kismet

A Change Of Horses
22 Mulberry Walk
Confessional Kismet In Suburbia
What-ifs, Maybes, Might-have-beens
PEBBLES THROWN
FROM A PEBBLE THROWN
Take me on the ghost train. 20p and there you are.

Scary in the tunnel night. White knuckle fingers on the safety bar.
Which way to blue skies? Phantoms pop from cupboard doors.
Mocking, manic laughter shrieks, dark promises of blood and gore.
Interventions at every turn. Opportunities thrown wide and far.

Journeys I might never take. TomTom thinks he knows just where we are.
Ripples from a pebble thrown make tsunami on a foreign shore.

I would slip right off this high-rise hell but the elevator stops at every floor.
Twelve, going on sixteen. Such a rush to grow old and wise.

Endless possibilities. Follow, soaring where the eagle flies.
Which way to blue skies? Mummy said dont go out alone.
I hear bad name-calling, derisory. So, choose direction, and turn the stone.
PEBBLES INSTRUMENTAL
MIGHT-HAVE-BEENS
We all must wonder, now and then, if things had turned out - well - just plain different.
Chance path taken, page unturned or brief encounter, blossomed, splintered.
Might you have been the man of courage, brave upon lifes battlefield,
Captain Commerce, high-flown banker, hedonistic, down-at-heel?
A Puritan of moral fibre, voice raised in praise magnificent?
Or rested in assured repose, knowing your lot in quiet content?
What-ifs, Maybes and Might-have-beens fly, soft petals on a breeze.

What-ifs, Maybes and Might-have-beens. Why-nots, Perhaps and Wait-and-sees.
GERALD THE BANKER
UPPER SIXTH LOAN SHARK
Where did it come from, wheres it going?

Upper sixth loan shark, numbers flowing
from the pen that never forgets,
recording ledgers, each-way safe bets.
Fauntleroys and first form fags, allowances all overspent.

Paters guilty generosity safely deposited against rainy day.
Theres money in those goddamn hills.

Interest in sugar-coated bitter pills.
Margins made from Tompkins Minor
float aspirations, nothing finer.........
BANKER BETS, BANKER WINS
Education, micro-managed.
MBA: a doddle mastered.
City-bound, Canary Wharf.
A cushy number, fluky bastard.
Banker bets and banker wins, never missed yet, for all his sins.
Hedge funds, wraps and equities.

Lackeys, aides in fierce attendance.
Trusts and gilts, reserve currencies.
Liquid gold in safe ascendance.
Treat myself to quality time, test a porsche and snort a line, eat Hermione for lunch.
Set that glum PA a-jumping, book front-row tickets for something after we munch.
Fast-tracked futures, hard-nut traders.

Feeding frenzy, pigs a-troughing.
Fuelled by forecasts, and hot share options.
Big fat bonus in the offing.
Draconian calls for regulation

are drowned in latte with Starbucks muffin.
Mortgage melt-down: non est mea culpa.
Threatened exit, stage left, laughing....
Banker bets, cheques in the post: not worth the ink its written in.
GERALD GOES HOMELESS
SWING IT FAR
I was no good on the rugger field. Pushing and kicking, brutish boys bothered me.
Sensitive and caring seemed the lighter, brighter way to be.
Mr Jennings, good housemaster, seemed instinctively to understand.

Touched me with his gentle presence. Under bedclothes, underhand. Underhand.
Overnight, he did a runner, threatened with harsh expose.
I fell to pieces, dropped out of classes into life's endless melee. Endless melee.
Parents listened, didnt get it. Poof and Jesse, Daddy said.
Mummy tried but fussed and fretted, skeletons best left under bed. Under the bed.
Camden Market in the winter, a cold stones throw from Kentish Town.
Got a minute? Just the ticket! Meet the boys and mess around. And mess around.
Independence far from suburbia. Doss down and dirty, tucked up tight.
Hows your father? Not too chipper? Serves the bugger flippin right. Flippin right.
Parents listened, didnt get it. Poof and Jesse, Daddy said.
Mummy tried but fussed and fretted, skeletons best left under bed.
On the streets a rude survival, hot like-minded overtures.
Sad departure, sweet arrival. If you dont like it, right up yours!
There comes a point when deep conviction bears down hard on who you are.
Pointless to don cloak of denial, get the lead out and swing it far..... swing it far..... swing it
far..... swing it
far..... swing it far..... swing it.........
ADRIFT AND DUMFOUNDED....
He stands at the crossroads of New St. and Old Town.

Gerald Something from good-home-on-sea.
Thinking back to the child that he once was.
All bread and butter and jam for his tea.
Men came and went in his moments of madness.

Muttered apologies, late for a meeting.
Too much intensity too much feigned sadness.
Crestfallen, hangdog, glances too fleeting.
He was your golden boy, hes adrift and dumfounded

with nowhere to go, no appointments to keep.
Hes our little man, hes adrift and dumfounded.
Head on hard pillow, waiting for sleep.
Broken societies, selfish, uncaring.

Addled brains clutching at chemicals soothing.
Desperate measures, desperately tearing
at last vestige of dignity, his for the losing.
He was your golden boy, hes adrift and dumfounded

with nowhere to go, no appointments to keep.
Hes our little man, hes adrift and dumfounded.
Head on hard pillow, waiting for sleep.
GERALD THE MILITARY MAN
OLD SCHOOL SONG
From playing fields to killing fields: just one small step of madness.
Officer training, uniform, boys together shower together.
Rank and file can be just fine but thats not what were here for.
So, sign upon the dotted line, be commissioned, Hell for leather.
How we sang that old school song, from Pirates of Penzance.

Foemen bearing steel, we slapped our chests and raised our voices.
No mad poets we, or painters twee but young men with a yearning
to flex our might for all thats right when face with moral choices.
Wrapped in the old school song, we fly our colours high.

Bravo! The old school song! Harsh reality, by and by.
Dad delivered us from the Hun and we reflect his selfless deed
on this desert plain of conflict where special forces, choppers need.
Fly-boy coming to collect you, lift you up and then protect you.
Be this gung or be this ho, may glorious battle resurrect you.
Wrapped in the old school song, we fly our colours high.

Bravo! The old school song! Harsh reality, by and by.
WOOTTON BASSETT TOWN
Hourglass sands run through my veins like blood draining from a salty wound.
Mad Mars forgets the cost of strife, serves no longer, purpose in my life.
I lie in sweat, cry others tears and write a letter to my Mum,
my wife, my God unheard, unseen, Who never thinks to intervene.
Oh, what pain and oh, what lie has called to us, from heaven on high?
This cruel and harsh sweet punishment for follies acted, leaves us spent.
Long road to Baghdad, then Persian hordes? Where will we stop to sheath our swords?
IEDs lie patient, sleeping, wake when soldier boots come creeping.
Hourglass sands run through my veins like blood draining from a salty wound.
Mad Mars forgets the cost of strife, serves no longer, purpose in my life.
Down this dusty scorched wind-blast track, eyes facing forward, ne'er look back.
As rain comes down on Wootton Bassett Town, black hearses crawl and church bells sound.
Bikers, burghers line the kerbs; a politician, a Highness Royal.
Chance shoppers, tradesmen, stiffly stand and shed their tears for the military man.
GERALD THE CHORISTER
POWER AND SPIRIT
Touch down after muddy rugby in the softer evensong.

Steal through open doors to heaven in angelic sing-along.
Tinsel echoes in the rafters still the air in stained glass light.
Our voices chaste, un-broken, pure, take manly message to the fight.
I sense the power. And I sense the spirit move

in stately corridors of oak and stone, vaulted above.
Beyond the nave, beside dark transepts, candles flicker in the quire.
First the glow deep in the belly, tight grip of faith to fan the fire.
In the chapel, I am wondrous in the eyes of lesser boys.

Raptures touch me, lift me, shape me. Brotherhood, an ode to joy.
Stiff white ruffs on cassockd ranks with hand on heart and hand on sword.
Elevated, born to service, to service of the Lord.
I sense the path. I sense the glory road.

Position, influence, my head above the earthly clod below.
Follow me to serve dark Master, He whose number might be His name.
Branded, burning, power unholy, just have to love Him all the same....
GIVE TILL IT HURTS
Let us pray: Dear Beloved Father:
We know it's tough to make ends meet through troubled times

as economic woes grow, bad to worse.
But call out to our family of treasured followers
to make a pledge today, give till it hurts.
Our coffers almost empty, but our flock stands faithful by
as we set out to shave the needy and bereft.
Together we can fleece our willing congregation
and I can live on any small change that's left.
So, give till it hurts. Give till it hurts. Make a pledge and give till it hurts.
That was today's speaker, the humble Reverend Gerald. Tune in to the National Godspend
Channel next week. Praise be to Him and HALLELUJAH. Remember to keep those pledges
coming in and - give till it hurts.
GERALD, A MOST ORDINARY MAN
COSY CORNER
Gerald Bostock, fresh from school with few O-levels, sets his sights.
No grand, fanciful fantasies but level headed middle ground.
The retail trade, the corner shop, at humble service of plain town-folk.
Open at nine and closed by six: enough to work, play, work around.
Regulars drop by to chat in idle gossip, repetition.
Same old words, another day while, all the time, life slips away.
But slips so slowly, stretches moments into hours and hours to years.
With characters by Harold Pinter, dark silences, slow Passion Play.
Then home to fire up model trains and shunt and shuffle wagons, locomotive breath upon
his brow. Smooth clockwork running motors hum
while barren Madge prepares hot dinner. Fray Bentos pie: always a winner.
So, praise lifes routine cozy habits. And dont forget to call your Mum.
SHUNT AND SHUFFLE
Same old words, another day while all the time life slips away.
But slips so slowly, stretches moments into slow-burn Passion Play
while barren Madge prepares hot dinner. Fray Bentos pie: always a winner.
Then home to fire up model trains and shunt and shuffle carriages.
Sweet loco breath upon his brow. Banish thoughts of clockwork marriages.
While barren Madge prepares hot dinner. Fray Bentos pie: always a winner.
A CHANGE OF HORSES
Last lights wink out on this pale and sultry night.

Stars signal long past two AM.
I feel the lateness in the hour
and Im fifty long years from home.
A new dawn glimmers. Time for a change of horses.

It's time to chart new courses
and head for safer houses.
No more empty towers of this unholy Babylon.
Some four hundred thousand hours have come and gone.
I smell, in the air, a new meadow morning.

Fresh-flowering grasses stirring
and no pressure free-falling.
Thin mists to bring and light airs to call.
And we treasure all, all that we left behind us.

No pointed cold and dark regrets.
No nameless blame to lay.
Resolute, the optimist, I ride fresh horse and spur it on.
Four hundred thousand hours have come and gone.
22 MULBERRY WALK
CONFESSIONAL
Gerald the Banker

I made my millions, stashed the pile in Swiss bank havens, lost the lot when Inland Revenue
got wise. So, I did my time, my time for what?
Gerald the Homeless

On the streets, a pretty pickle. I met a man who lifted me.
Took me home for slap and tickle, in civil partnership, pledged to me.
Gerald the Chorister

Enough of twisted overkill, Hellfire, damnation, voices shrill.
I was rumbled, de-frocked and tumbled from grace and favour, caught hand in till.
Gerald the Military Man

Invalided out of theatre. Civilian rehabilitation.
My time now given to help my brothers find cold feet, lost building nations.
Gerald: A Most Ordinary Man

Sold the shop, flicked off the power switch. In silent siding, Mallard must stay. Carriages and
sleek coal tender packed in boxes, sold on eBay. Sold on eBay.
KISMET IN SUBURBIA
Gerald the Banker

Fresh start, another day, another life, a quiet cafe. Starbuck euphoria.
Count my blessings, crossword ready. Soon, pipe and slippers in the study by the telly.
I seek forgiveness, I beg your pardons at number 9 Mulberry Gardens.
Gerald the Chorister

Fresh start, another day, another life so far away from hell-raised aria. Now I lay me down to
live in acquiescence, mine to give to all who listen. Deaf to dark un-heavenly host at 25
Mulberry Close.
Gerald the Military Man

Fresh start, another day, another life so far away from white heat Arabia. Comrades
pictures on the mantle, lit by flower-scented candle, ghostly, flicker. Last man standing,
bowed but alive at 33 Mulberry Drive.
Gerald: A Most Ordinary Man

Fresh start, another day, another life not so far away in slow-burn suburbia.
All routine and repetition, stamp-collecting, first editions, steam train-spotting.
Numb, the senses and numb, the brain, at 54 Mulberry Lane.
Gerald the Homeless

Fresh start, another day, my cared-for partner just slipped away from sweet utopia.
Bequeathed comforts, ceramic hob, electric blanket, your uncles Bob: a pretty picture.
Treasured moments, past and present, at 17 Mulberry Crescent.
WHAT-IFS, MAYBES, MIGHT-HAVE-BEENS
We all must wonder, now and then, if things had turned out - well - just plain different.
Chance path taken, page unturned or brief encounter, blossomed, splintered.
Might I have been the man of courage, brave upon lifes battlefield,
Captain Commerce, high-flown banker, hedonistic, down-at-heel?
A Puritan of moral fibre, voice raised in praise magnificent?
Or rested in assured repose, knowing my lot in quiet content.

Suppose bold woman, quite unsuited, brave in adventure, sojourns wicked.

Velvet touch and lips soft-centred, tossing hair, teeth bared in laughing.
Imagine idyll Summers never-ending, Winter nights beside fire roaring.
Touched by madness, filled with fondness, kissed by love, love without name.

So, you ride yourselves over the fields.

And you make all your animal deals.
And your wise men dont know how it feels
to be Thick As A Brick...... two
Hare In The Wine Cup (lyrics incomplete and subject to change)
There's a Hare In The Wine Cup , moved in just yesterday,
digging for freedom , sweet incarceration,
vaguely bewildered in furry brown innocence.
Tunneled and slithered under the fence.
Let's hope the mad Patterdale Terriers* sleeping;

Too fat, too lazy to go for the killing.
This Hare without Spectacles doesn't do dinner.

Candlelit fast food for saint or for sinner.
There's a Hare In The Wine Cup..

Hare In The Wine Cup..
Hare In The Wine Cup..suitablely fitting..
Hare In The Wine Cup..silently sitting..
..silently sitting.
Wise for a sage , a tearaway* leverite**,
aspires to be part of the family of furniture
Lost his wild ways so he'll have to get over it.
Safe in the garden if for only a minute.
There's a Hare In The Wine Cup

Hare In The WineCup
Hare In The WineCup..suitably fitting..
Hare In The Wine Cup..silently sitting..
silently sitting..silently sitiing..silently sitting
Homo Erraticus
Release date: April 14, 2014 (UK)
Ian Anderson vocals, flutes, acoustic guitars
Florian Opahle electric guitar
John O'Hara accordion, Hammond organ, piano, keyboards
Ryan O'Donnell additional vocals
David Goodier bass guitar, double bass
Scott Hammond drums, percussion

CHRONICLES
Doggerland
Our first steps on a forgotten land
Trace retreat, when I stand stern
Left us brave and calm and drugged
And sent us copper flow
The saints have all been good with us

Scattered to the stars
Our company for ?
Oh, when stawerdust will grow
All of us will cover land

All across the oer' tides
Across the panels and wolves
Take up a wrench and nail it wide ?
Strike with buck and flameton bow

Follow a trail and ?
Onwards to another place, a place to raise a grove
And these four walls to shelter us
On this dynastic plot

Making ? while the ? grow
Our lands alone I move
On a quest for dark land
On a quest to fold the tides

A quest with awe and elves and wolves
Stricken islands near and far
Back across our father land

Cast a fear that overcame
What harm has this in Tuscany?
The challenged winter's near
Heavy Metals
I am the smith. I feed my melt-pot,
fashion carbon steely blades
while coulter and the mouldboard stab
and break the clod in forest glades.
In sultry peace and blood-raised anger,
I hammer out my forging trade.
Lockheed, Fokker, Curtis, Hawker,

Avro, Gloster, Handley Page,
Colt, Beretta, Walther, Mauser,
Springfield, Ruger in a rage.
Holland, Holland, Boss and Purdey,
Woodward, Greener: golden age.
Every atom ofthe arsenal forged

in distant dying sun
in unholy Trinity now lends new
form to plough and gun.
Harry S. and Oppenheimer, Fermi,
Teller, what have you done?
And did they pray that He may guide
us in His ways, now battle's won?
Enter The Uninvited
Space, place, face
Halt, block, stop
Sorry, we're coming in
We Roman legions wend their way

Through ever widening roads of Empire
Long straight tracks to new horizons,
Gilded in soft-tinted campfire
Old Corinium Dobunnorum,

Durovernum Cantiacorum
Bold Londinium offers voice in market square
And open forum
Angle-Saxons,Danes and Normans

On the whole,a curve of learning
Alfie,great in spirit,and battle
On Somerset levels left cakes a 'burning
Willy Conker,work cut out

In Domesday pages marks our number
Sheep and pigs amongst the hundreds
Fat tithes and taxes to encumber
Pizza palace,burger kingdom

Cocaine,cola,nylon stockings
Playboy,Newsweek,Time and Life
GI Joe and spam fritter shocking
Cold war sparring,Langley spooking

Grosvenor Square 'the London station
Elvis hips and Monroe lips
John Birch against United Nations
Bubble gum and Google-bum

Facebook 'frenzied social network
Apple Mac and iPhone App
Gibson,Fender sonic fretwork
Star Trek,Baywatch,Friends
Sopranos,West Wing,Madmen
Walking Dead
Officer Rick will turn the trick and banish zombies
From our heads.
Puer Ferox Adventus
The brash North wind strikes
upon the isle of Lindisfarne.
I offer searching souls the wisdom of my years.
These lessons writ in book of ages holy, past.
The agony, the righteous path to
steer between the waves,
the dark abyss, tied to the mast.
This sponge of pragmatic Constantine

mops them all up and wipes them clean.
It's all okay, it's all official. The Christ
child advent here to be seen.
Saturn's Solstice, Yuletide blotted,
blended in cynic innocence.
Meet in Milan and host the party,
safer to sit astride the fence.
What is this book? These airy pages?

Scribed and scribbled with latitude.
Tallest tales for poor and needy in wide-
eyed wonder at faith renewed.
Words of gospel and redemption,
absolution if we repent
Emperor's deathbed, late salvation,
baptism in dubious testament.
There's a wild child coming.

There's an angry man.
There's a new age dawning
here, to an old age plan.
Manic mother, her child gone missing:

found in the temple with the elder men.
Gone about His Father's business. Yeah -
but he soon goes missing once again.
Ducked his head with the mad-John prophet.
West bank desert doubts and fear.
White magic, healing, and exorcism: got
twelve good men - now the gang's all here.
Proclamation, divine seed sown.

(Did he really say that thing?)
On donkey colt, calm, to the Passion, knowing
full well what the charge must bring.
The body bread, a farewell supper,
bounty silver, a kiss betrayed
lt's a long, hard haul, that Via Dolorosa.
No last contrition, quite unafraid.

Meliora Sequamur
Mortarboard, gown, hood and lace come

guide me in learning, in ascension
where minds may meet and twitters
tweet in modern Latin, in declension.
O Domine, O Magister - we aspiring angels sing
with one tongue, forever young,
let us follow better things.
In saintly word and perfect grammar,

to Academia's lofty space.
The trivium, quadrivium, all baser
thoughts now to efface.
Cruel Bunter-bashing, cane-a-thrashing,

lines, detention, soon forgot.
O dark ploy! This grammar school boy
has paid the price and bought the lot.
In the quiet hours of life's twilight,
old school ties and photographs,
I call to mind the sore behind, the
tears, the last and longest laughs.
Empty desks and inkwells, darkened

chapels, cobweb corridors silent now.
Ghostly purple robes and dusty trencher,
what could be holier than thou?
Meliora sequamur: may we follow better things.
The Turnpike Inn
Go no farther: access denied down

byways, freeways of the past.
The superhighway tollhouse humbly
begs your pause, so just hold fast.
A word in ear, free marketeer suggests
you ponders, and takes your choice.
For right of passage, freight or message,
change your horses, raise your voice
in protest at the pretty penny
taken for your mortal sins.
But dally now in sweet surrender, drown
sorrows at the Turnpike Inn.
Beware the brigand, pistols drawn,

who offers life for modest fee
and ends his days like poor John Austin,
last man on the Tyburn Tree.
The palest ale, the stoutest porter
fortify the heart, the breast.
Weary head on eider pillow, horse
blanket over, down to rest.
Though we too steal from honest wage,
come lie with us, good kith and kin
and dally now in sweet surrender,
drown sorrows at the Turnpike Inn.
Drown sorrows at the Turnpike Inn.

Drown your sorrows at the Turnpike Inn.
Though we too steal from honest wage,
come lie with us, good kith and kin
and dally now in sweet surrender,
drown sorrows at the Turnpike Inn.
The Engineer
All along the new straight track we

plough the old fields under.
Seven good feet and a quarter inch,
broad rails to steal the thunder.
100 picks in '36 sent navvies to meet their maker
as black Box Tunnel worms its way
past the Company undertaker.
Hard, cast in iron, that engineer:

God bless Isambard!
Piston-scraping, furnace-busting,
(he) plays the winning card.
Rain, Steam, Speed at Maidenhead -

Turner's vision wide.
Over bridges, girders, hot-driven
rivets safely guide
passenger wagons from Paddington
to Bristol's briny blue.
On to break the waves, with a thousand
horses, turn the churning screw.

God bless Isambard!
But those bonnie lads from way 'oop

North, had to have the final laugh:
the ripe new age was the standard
gauge, four foot, eight and a half.
And rolling out across all Europe,
across the mad, bad Empire world
came the age of steam and the engines
roaring, bold brazen Jack unfurled.
Arching palaces at Praed Street,
stand lofty and serene;
home to their maker and his last two
miles to sleepy Kensal Green.

God bless Isambard!
The Pax Britannica
I came to woo you at behest of

Uncle Leo, did my best
to charm and Hatter, sooth, lay thoughts
of scheming Saxon Prince to rest.
Just seventeen, you were emboldened,
turned away plain Orange boy
and made for me a consort haven
in your heart, haven of joy.
Now Empire spills a growing blot

across the atlas, leaves its mark.
The hands of men in iron ships stoke
their boilers, fan the spark.
Generous in deed and promise, our
emissaries make fair trade
and pay with sovereign Queenly coin for goods
and worldly fortunes made.
We will win them and contain them,

not by Enneld Pattern gun:
no hard coercion, whip or stick but
ten good shillings to be won.
See, we offer contracts clear in
English, plain as it appears
in small print, some trifling matters:
not important, never fear.
Pax Britannica, Pax Britannica, rules

the headland and the wave.
Hansa spirit will enrich us, keep
us from an early grave.
Sweet Victoria, Mother England,
gracious queen whom God will save.
We'll leave them gifts of architecture,

engineering, laws and more.
The willow bat, the bowler hat of
gentlemen who keep the score.
Head-up code of moral conduct,
never minions to deceive.
Straight the ball and, best ofall, when
time is come, we take our leave.
Pax Britannica, Pax Britannica, rules

the headland and the wave.
Hansa spirit will enrich us, keep
us from an early grave.
My sweet Victoria, your dearest Albert;
two ledger lines above the stave.
PROPHECIES
Tripudium Ad Bellum
Instrumental
After These Wars
After battle, with wounds to lick and

beaus and belles all reuniting.
Rationing, austerity: it did us
good after the fighting.
Now, time to bid some fond farewells and
walk away from empires crumbling.
Post-war baby-boom to fuel with post-
Victorian half-dressed fumbling.
I see a screen, grey cathode tube in

walnut cabinet, pride of place
in holy family living room. Clipped-
tone announcer, powdered face.
And now to mould public opinion,
sanctify the good and great.
Lordly over his dominion, brash
Television seals our fate.
After these wars, when gentler winds were blowing.

After these wars, when stocking tops were showing.
When the Co-op gave us daily bread
and penicillin raised the dead
and combine harvesters kept
us fed, after these wars.
We thanked the Yank and thanked the

Lord for sparing us from dark invasion.
Now to liberate, rebuild and balance
Europe's new equation.
Spooky spies in from the cold with
lies and secrets to be sold
to bigger brothers, bigger bombs,
le Carr thrillers to be told.
We take our place amongst those others

who would punch above their weight.
Divest ourselves of glowing mantle,
mantle of old Britain Great.
Bit part cast in Hollywood, ripe
old thespian, tolerated.
World-weary ham upon the stage,
evergreen but over-rated.
After these wars, when gentler winds were blowing.

After these wars, when stocking tops were showing.
When the Co-op gave us daily bread
and penicillin raised the dead
and combine harvesters kept
us fed, after these wars.
New Blood, Old Veins
New blood, old veins, ringing in the new dawn.
Like it, lump it, old chips with curry on.
Let's get to it! Tempus fugit.
Time to cheat the coroner.
Affordable package tours to the
land of Johnny Foreigner.
New blood, old veins, kids can't wait to be gone.

Next door, jealous neighbours peeping
through the curtains drawn.
Half-timbered Morris Traveller.
Pop the luggage in the back.
On the ferry, getting merry,
bending over, builder's crack.
Out there, far beyond Victorian

piers and palisades.
Have to toss the candy floss. No more
ginger beers or lemonades.
Roll on, roll off. Duty free, Dover, Calais.
Wet the lip, a hefty sip. Cheap
brandy, jolly Beaujolais.
Time to visit fresher places, don't

be fearful, we'll join the clan.
Just be mindful of who's the master,
don't pinch the sun bed. Understand:
we're going mental, continental,
socks and sandals, Tapas bar.
Got a phrasebook, bought a timeshare,
lessons in Spanish guitar.
Goodbye Blackpool, going

where sun is guaranteed.
Drink it down, throw it up. Watneys Red: just what I need.
Knotted hankie worn too late,
melanoma's such a pain.
Not too far from hot Malaga to
Luton Airport in the rain.
REVELATIONS
In For A Pound
I've started, so I'll finish. I'm here, so I'll stay.
Dally with a little lady, met along the way.
In for a penny through the turnstile gate.
Searching for the motherlode before it's too late.
Barley grain sprouting, spilled upon the ground.
I'm the mad hatter, getting fatter, in for a pound.
I'm the mad hatter, getting fatter, in for a pound.
In for a pound.
In for a pound.
In for a pound.
The Browning Of The Green

Exponential family planning:
let me play the numbers game,
sign up for some benefits, get my
dues and stake a claim.
Spill out to suburbia then spread
onwards to the country wide
and when the last plot's taken, I'll
spill out on to the other side.
It's the browning of the green: we'll

be tight as canned sardine.
Lemmings to the right and the left of
us and all points in between...
It's the browning of the green.
Be fruitful: nothing to it. Fill the

earth, subdue it, multiply.
It's written in that Goodly Book. So,
it's really best that I comply.
Another baby-booming bloomer?
Imbecile fecundity?
Another mouth, but what the Hell?
Child benefits, they come for free.
Lemmings to the right and the left of
A little boy, a little girl: quite

perfect but it won't suffice.
Bouncing bairns upon my knee;
six or seven might be nice.
Come, time to go with Daddy, find
ourselves some open playground space
on these concrete fields of England, this
blessed realm, this blessed place.

Lcmmings to the right and the left of
Per Errationes Ad Astra
We thought it over for a century or two.
Considered all in light of such short history.
Would you let them loose upon the
stars? Bring their dark and murky
waters to lap on pristine shores?
Fine in their own place and with
their own destiny to follow.
But - breeding like rabbits on other
worlds and with other calmer spirits?
Per errationes ad astra? Then dream, dream

on. The dream is all. All good sense gone.
Neil, Buzz, and Michael, they made a

team. The right stuff in a can of spam.
The brave adventure came to nought,
cruel economics had their say.
A tiny bubble of pure white light from mighty
engines roared on Pad 39A in the night.
Orbiters and Soyuz towered on
stacks of Lox and hydrogen.
But what a little squib, a little
firework in the cosmic crash of fiery
fusion as far galaxies collide:
drowned in the vastness of all we see
and, still, can only just imagine.
Let's not worry about the wandering

man. He'll wander hither if he can.
But his time may have already come. And gone.
Cold Dead Reckoning
I don't mean to be a misery but
I have to tell you straight
there are zombies in the closet and
they're not prepared to wait.
We are the tribe that eats itself and
spits out not a morsel thing.
And navigates this desert by
our cold dead reckoning.
Does anybody have the charts,

coordinates or maps?
A hint of a direction to avoid further mishaps?
A throw of dice, a toss of coin decides
what Mrs. Luck might bring
as we navigate this desert by our
cold, dead reckoning.
Turmoil, tempest, tall tsunami,

haven't we heard it all before?
Await The Beast to join the feast,
this party is an open door.
All are welcome! All are joined in
penitence, if it please the King,
while we navigate this desert by
our cold, dead reckoning.
We placed our trust in sad self-doubting

leaders who have led,
led us through the dark to slip amongst
the ranks and files of walking dead.
Send to us a guiding symbol,
tiny bird upon the wing,
Now, back across the Doggerland:

will higher mighty force redeem
the one who dropped the moral
compass, failed to fulfill the dream?
Will testimony tarnish and will
sticky reputation cling?
As we navigate this desert by
our cold, dead reckoning.
Cheer up, Charlie, brave a smile, lift

your chin and walk the walk.
See! Angels watching over all; the
snake, the dove, the circling hawk.
There must be another Eden, future
garden of earthly delight.
Next time, no fruit: in birthday suit, walk
naked through the heavenly night
Acknowledgments
Ian Anderson, Martin Barre and all past and present members of Jethro Tull.
James Anderson.
Adrian at Chester Hopkins.
Everyone at the Jethro Tull Group. http://www.thejethrotullgroup.proboards.com/
Official Jethro Tull website - jethrotull.com

Official Ian Anderson website - iananderson.com
Official Homo Erraticus website - homo-erraticus.com
All lyrics remain The Ian Anderson Group of Companies.
This ebook version is made available to fans at no cost and at no time should you pay for it.
17, 231 Broadford Bazaar, 301
20 Years Of Jethro Tull Box, 219 Broadsword, 179
4.W.D. (Low Ratio), 169 Budapest, 213
A, 160 Bungle in the Jungle, 93
A Better Moon, 366 Calliandra Shade (The Cappuccino Song), 375
A CHANGE OF HORSES, 401 Catfish Rising, 262
A Gift Of Roses, 332 Cheap Day Return, 39
A Hand Of Thumbs, 380 Cheerio, 183
A New Day Yesterday, 13 Christmas Song, 60
A Passion Play, 74 Circular Breathing, 372
Part one, 76 Cold Dead Reckoning, 424
A Passion Play - The End, 81 Cold Wind to Valhalla, 102
A Raft Of Penguins, 378 Commons Brawl, 297
A Small Cigar, 295 CONFESSIONAL, 402
A Song For Jeffrey, 10 Coronach, 225
A Stitch In Time, 230 COSY CORNER, 399
A Time for Everything, 31 Crash-Barrier Waltzer, 108
A Week Of Moments, 379 Crazed Institution, 117
Acres Wild, 140 Crest Of A Knave, 206
ADRIFT AND DUMFOUNDED, 394 Crew Nights, 292
Aeroplane, 232 Critique Oblique, 286
After These Wars, 418 Cross-Eyed Mary, 38
Alive and Well and Living In, 27 Crossfire, 162
And Further On, 170 Crossword, 239
And The Mouse Police Never Sleeps, 139 Cup of Wonder, 130
Another Christmas Song, 258 Dangerous Veils, 313
Another Harry's Bar, 318 Dark Ages, 154
Apogee, 200 Dharma For One, 68
Aqualung, 34, 37 Different Germany, 355
Astronomy, 192 Divinities: Twelve Dances With God, 356
At Last, Forever, 316 Doctor To My Disease, 271
Audition, 236 Doggerland, 407
Automotive Engineering, 202 Dogs In The Midwinter, 212
Awol, 323 Dot Com, 319, 322
Back to the Family, 15 Down At The End Of Your Road, 224
Back-Door Angels, 89 Dr. Bogenbroom, 72
Bad-Eyed and Loveless, 121 Drive On The Young Side Of Life, 299
Baker Street Muse, 106 Driving Song, 62
BANKER BETS, BANKER WINS, 392 Dun Ringill, 158
Batteries Not Included, 167 Ears Of Tin, 254
Beastie, 173 El Nino, 327
Beggar's Farm, 7 End Game, 349
Beltane, 238 Enter The Uninvited, 409
Bends Like A Willow, 329 European Legacy, 188
Benefit, 22 Fallen On Hard Times, 176
Beside Myself, 314 Far Alaska, 330
Big Dipper, 122 Farm On The Freeway, 209
Big Riff and Mando, 260 Fat Man, 18
Birthday Card At Christmas, 338 Fire at Midnight, 136
Black And White Television, 350 First Snow On Brooklyn, 340
Black Mamba, 328 Fly By Night, 344
Black Satin Dancer, 103 Flying Colours, 177
Black Sunday, 165 Flying Dutchman, 159
For a Thousand Mothers, 21 Look Into the Sun, 16
For Michael Collins, Jeffrey and Me, 29 Looking For Eden, 353
From a Dead Beat to an Old Greaser, 120 Lost In Crowds, 377
FROM A PEBBLE THROWN, 389 Love Story, 59
Fylingdale Flyer, 163 M.U. - The Best Of Jethro Tull, 111
General Crossing, 204 Made In England, 345
GIVE TILL IT HURTS, 398 Man of Principle, 296
Gold-Tipped Boots, Black Jacket And Tie, 276 March The Mad Scientist, 228
Grace, 110 Mayhem, Maybe, 245
Hard Liner, 305 Meliora Sequamur, 413
Hare In The Wine Cup, 405 MIGHT-HAVE-BEENS, 390
Heat, 195 Minstrel In The Gallery, 98
Heavy Horses, 137 Title Track one, 100
Title track, 146 Montserrat, 362
Heavy Metals, 408 Mother England Reverie, 109
Heavy Water, 257 Mother Goose, 40
Home, 153 Moths, 142
Homo Erraticus, 406 Motoreyes, 242
Hot Mango Flush, 326 Mountain Men, 215
Hunt By Numbers, 325 Move On Alone, 8
Hunting Girl, 131 My God, 43
Hymn 43, 44 My Sunday Feeling, 5
I Don't Want to Be Me, 300 New Blood, Old Veins, 420
Ian Anderson Solo Releases, 341 Night In The Wilderness, 278
I'm Your Gun, 223 Nightcap, 279
In For A Pound, 421 No Lullaby, 141
In the Beginning, 36 No Rehearsal, 237
Inside, 26 No Step, 298
It All Trickles Down, 334 Nobody's Car, 194
It's Breaking Me Up, 9 North Sea Oil, 151
Jack Frost And The Hooded Crow, 222 Not Ralitsa Vassileva, 384
Jack-A-Lynn, 241 Nothing is Easy, 17
Jack-In-The-Green, 129 Nothing to Say, 25
Jeffrey Goes to Leicester Square, 14 Nursie, 73
Journeyman, 143 Occasional Demons, 265
Jump Start, 210 Old Black Cat, 381
Just Trying To Be, 67 Old Ghosts, 157
Kelpie, 247 OLD SCHOOL SONG, 395
KISMET IN SUBURBIA, 403 One Brown Mouse, 145
Kissing Willie, 252 One White Duck / 0^{10} = Nothing At All, 105
Ladies, 88 Only Solitaire, 95
Lap Of Luxury, 186 Orion, 152
Last Man At The Party, 339 Out Of The Noise, 310
Later, That Same Evening, 189 Overhang, 246
Law of the Bungle, 283 Panama Freighter, 370
Law of the Bungle Part II, 284 Paparazzi, 198
Left Right, 285 Paradise Steakhouse, 288
Lick Your Fingers Clean, 235 Part Of The Machine, 244
Life Is A Long Song, 70 Pax Britannica, 416
Lights Out, 302 Per Errationes Ad Astra, 423
Like A Tall Thin Girl, 272 Photo Shop, 382
Living In The Past, 57, 61 Pibroch (Cap in Hand), 135
Living In These Hard Times, 248 Piece Of Cake, 290
Locomotive Breath, 46 Pied Piper, 124
Look at the Animals, 282 Pigeon Flying Over Berlin Zoo, 383
Pig-Me And The Whore, 107 Stormwatch, 149
Play in Time, 32 Stormy Monday Blues, 221
Post Last, 287 Strange Avenues, 261
Postcard Day, 363 Strip Cartoon, 229
POWER AND SPIRIT, 397 Stuck In The August Rain, 317
Protect And Survive, 166 Summerday Sands, 226
Puer Ferox Adventus, 411 Sunshine Day, 233
Pussy Willow, 180 Sweet Dream, 63
Queen and Country, 87 SWING IT FAR, 393
Quizz Kid, 116 Taxi Grab, 119
Radio Free Moscow, 191 Teacher, 66
Rainbow Blues, 113 The Broadsword And The Beast, 171
Raising Steam, 218 The Browning Of The Green, 421
Rare And Precious Chain, 309 The Chateau D'Isaster Tapes, 236
Reasons for Waiting, 20 The Chequered Flag (Dead Or Alive), 125
Requiem, 104 The Clasp, 175
Rhythm In Gold, 243 The Curse, 293
Ring Out, Solstice Bells, 132 The Dog-Ear Years, 331
Rock Island, 250, 256 The Engineer, 415
Rocks On The Road, 267 The Habanero Reel, 369
Roll Yer Own, 266 The Jasmine Corridor, 368
Roots To Branches, 306 The Jethro Tull Christmas Album, 336
Title Track, 308 The Little Flower Girl, 361
Rosa On The Factory Floor, 294 The Rattlesnake Trail, 253
Rover, 144 The Secret Language Of Birds, 333, 358, 360
Rupis Dance, 373, 387 The Secret Language Of Birds, Pt. II, 371
Title Track, 376 The Story Of The Hare Who Lost His Spectacles, 79
Saboteur, 190 The Third Hoorah, 96
Said She Was A Dancer, 211 The Turnpike Inn, 414
Salamander, 118 The Waking Edge, 217
Sanctuary, 367 The Water Carrier, 364
Saturation, 240 The Whaler's Dues, 259
Scenario, 236 The Whistler, 134
Seal Driver, 182 Thick As a Brick, 50
SeaLion, 90 Thick As A Brick
Sealion II, 289 Part one, 52
Set-Aside, 365 Thinking Round Corners, 269
SHUNT AND SHUFFLE, 400 This Free Will, 311
Silver River Turning, 291 This Is Not Love, 264
Singing All Day, 64 This Was, 3
Skating away on the Thin Ice of a New Day, 91 To Cry You a Song, 30
Sleeping With The Dog, 275 Toad In The Hole, 352
Slipstream, 45 Too Many Too, 227
Slow Marching Band, 178 Too Old to Rock 'N' Roll: Too Young to Die
Some Day the Sun Won't Shine for you, 6 Title Track one, 123
Something's On The Move, 156 Too Old To Rock'N'Roll: Too Young To Die, 114
Son, 28 Trains, 347
Songs From The Wood, 126 Tripudium Ad Bellum, 417
Title track one, 128 Truck Stop Runner, 303
Sossity: You're a Woman, 33 Tundra, 193
Sparrow On The Schoolyard Wall, 268 Two Fingers, 97
Spiral, 321 Two Short Planks, 385
Stand Up, 11 Under Wraps, 184, 187
Steel Monkey, 208 Under Wraps #2, 197
Still Loving You Tonight, 270 Undressed To Kill, 255
Uniform, 168 WHAT-IFS, MAYBES, MIGHT-HAVE-BEENS, 404
Up The `Pool, 71 When Jesus Came To Play, 277
Up To Me, 42 White Innocence, 273
UPPER SIXTH LOAN SHARK, 391 Wicked Windows, 324
User-Friendly, 354 Wind Up, 47
Valley, 312 Witches Promise, 65
Velvet Green, 133 With You There To Help Me, 24
Walk Into Light, 342, 346 Wond'ring Again, 69
Warchild, 84 Wond'ring Aloud, 41
WarChild Wond'ring Aloud Again (Full Morgan Version), 48
Title Track, 86 WOOTTON BASSETT TOWN, 396
Watching Me Watching You, 181 Working John, Working Joe, 164
We Used to Know, 19 Wounded, Old And Treacherous, 315
Weathercock, 148

Tull Lyrics 2014

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

Tull Lyrics 2014

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Description:

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Tull Lyrics 2014

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

What is the release date and location of Jethro Tull's first album 'This Was'?

What is the release date and location of Jethro Tull's first album 'This Was'?

What are the names and instruments of the band members on 'This Was'?

What are the names and instruments of the band members on 'This Was'?

The Jethro Tull & Ian Anderson

Complete Lyrics 1968 2014

Compiled, edited and formatted for online/ereaders

Won't somebody tell me where I laid my head last night?

Need some assistance; have you listened to what I said?

I didn't think how much you'd hurt me.

That old sun keeps on shining,

I pay my money for no returns.

When you run to me, going to turn away.

My bed is so empty and my heart is grown cold,

But, oh, baby, I said,

My tears have run dry and you wonder why.

Don't see, see, see where I'm goin',

Everyday I see the mornin' come on in the same old way.

Don't see, see, see where I'm goin',

A New Day Yesterday

Spent a long time looking

Bright city woman

Master's in the counting house

I think I enjoyed all my problems

I had waited for time to change her.

So if you hear my sad song singing

So when you look into the sun

When tension starts mounting

So if you're alone and

Don't want to be a fat man,

Nights of winter turn me cold --

Could be soon we'll cease to sound,

Remembering mornings, shillings spent,

Saving up the birds in hand

Each to his own way I'll go mine.

What a day for laughter and walking at night.

What a reason for waiting and dreaming of dreams.

Did you hear baby

Did you hear mother --

With You There To Help Me

I'm going back to the ones that I know,

I won't go down acting the same old play.

I'm going back to the ones that I know,

Every morning pressure forming

Climb a tower of freedom,

I'm sitting on the corner feeling glad.

And we'll laugh and we'll sing,

Take a walk in the park,

Can you cook, can you sew?

Counting lambs, counting sheep

She can't remember now when she was all in pieces.

I only feel what touches me

It's advice and it's nice to know

I'm with you L.E.M.

And the limp face hungry viewers

It's been a long time --

Closing my dream inside this paper-bag,

It's been a long time

Lights in the street,