Pointless lyrics post
Jul. 7th, 2006 08:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
plonqI'm probably dating myself by listening to these guys, but I've always appreciated the subtle Celtic influence in their music, and their somewhat off-the-wall lyrics. I've caught them in five concerts over the years, from the back of a 20,000 seat arena down to row 2 in a 2,500 seat theatre.
This is one of their lesser-known songs, but it is also one of my favourites. The last time I caught them in concert, Ian Anderson soloed this one, perched on a stool with an acoustic guitar.
This is one of their lesser-known songs, but it is also one of my favourites. The last time I caught them in concert, Ian Anderson soloed this one, perched on a stool with an acoustic guitar.
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.
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.
