Tytuł: For Mr. Thomas

• Wykonawca: Van Morrison
• Wyświetleń: 248

From faded newsprint used to wrap a fish
   Inscrutably the muse selects your face
   As I sit drinking famously in an Irish bar
   Five thousand miles and thirty years away
  
   With the usual ceremonial you were crowned one night
   King of the field where doctors nail the cows
   To make of the cock's quill the rights of language
   And the pricking heart a sword against the hours
  
   Let smirking scholars writhe in their favourite bondage
   And hold you plaintiff to the charge of art
   Exhibit A: he falls on legendary lines
   Singing mother I don't want a pain here in my heart
  
   The judge in me sucks eggs and jerks the sacred meat
   But the boy in me still dreams in Milk Wood town
   Like two provincial bastards playing the galleries
   I hold your photo to a mirror upside down
  
   And as bacon wafts through hungry streets, your ghost pervades
   Just like an old ex-boxer aged twenty two
   Staged-up like Falstaff or the wild welsh Rimbaud
   You'd laugh to see the monograms they make of you
   Ah, Mr. Thomas let us ramble through the midnight fair
   Let us throw old bottles at the ferris wheel
   Let us paint library on the library let us raid the moonlight
   Let us steal whatever we are supposed to steal
  
   Let us watch while the days grow daily more mundane
   That rough God go riding with his shears
   Hack wide the belly of the swollen mountains
   And rip molten heroes forth from their furious tears
  
   Oh, Mr. Thomas, oh, Mr. Thomas,
   Let us steal whatever we're supposed to steal
   Mr. Thomas, oh, Mr. Thomas,
   Why don't we feel whatever we're supposed to feel
  
   Oh, Mr. Thomas, Mr. Thomas,
   Why don't we feel whatever we're supposed to feel
   Oh, Mr. Thomas let us ramble through the midnight
   Let us throw bottles at the ferris wheel
   Let us paint library on the library let us raid the moonlight
   Let us steal whatever we're supposed to steal