"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 straight-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.
Society: 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.
Sossity: You're a woman.
Society: You're a woman.

"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

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
Black Sunday falls one day too soon

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
Black Sunday falls one day too soon

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