1. |
Adaptations
03:55
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In the novel of my life,
I would be the narrative, you would be the tension;
This could be the plot point that made me the man that I am.
In the drama of my life,
I would be the hubris, you'd be my harmartia;
I would be the fool, thinking you could be my path to light:
But you might...
In the comic of my life,
I would be the sidekick, you would be the hero;
You would be the psychic who knew all there could be to know.
In the movie of my life,
You would be director, I would be the star:
Moulded to perfection by direction from afar;
So here we are:
And here we could stay,
Pass all our days
Like thread in a maze.
Oh, I don't know,
No, I don't know
Which was is up, which way is down,
Which way is lost, which way is found,
And I don't know which way to go.
In the mystery of my life,
You would be detective, I would be the case:
You would find the poison that I'd been so foolish to taste.
In the battle for my life,
You would be the scalpel, I would be the skin,
And every incision means a harder decision for me:
So what will it be?
And are we agreed
On where this might lead?
Which way will you plead?
Oh and I don't know,
No I don't know
Which way is left, which way is right,
Which way's surrender, and which way is fight;
No I don't know which way to go.
Oh I don't know
Oh I don't know
Which way is up, which way is out,
Which words to whisper, and which ones to shout;
No I don't know which way to go.
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2. |
Parable
04:09
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We sat in the churchyard with our teacups raised,
Musing on Jesus and his formative days;
Saucers in hand discussing carpentry skills:
A humble way for the Messiah to pay his bills.
We talked of pharisees, of businessmen and profits,
And of the fading hope that we'd fulfil our promise;
That was the low point of the trip, I must admit:
But soon forgotten as we each took another hit
Followed the prodigal son, I'm never coming home;
Lost all the talents you gave, now I'm condemned to roam
Directionless, no sleep nor rest, my great success 'cause at last I know
What all those stories he told were meant to show.
We lay in the shelter of a wooded glade,
Musing on sunlight and the concept of shade;
We moved to fables and our own outlandish theories:
'The tortoise took a shortcut!', and other such conspiracies.
We talked of politics and varying positions,
Changing the broken world with freshmen's suppositions;
That was the triumph of the trip, I must admit:
Things spiralled downwards as we each took another hit.
(Chorus)
As we rested, our laurels turned to thorns on our heads,
And our innocence to unchaste thoughts in our beds;
And we're growing, but Future Youth won't look at us and think:
'Yes!' No, they'll turn their thoughts to higher things and drink.
(Chorus)
But when you're left at the side of the road, spurned your inheritance,
You know you've got it wrong when you're ignored by Samaritans.
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3. |
Farewell To Casanova
03:40
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Waking, sleeping, through an August afternoon;
The weather hinting that maybe autumn's come too soon:
My favourite season, and though the mellow fruits have not arrived,
I'll settle for the mists.
But with curtains drawn, there may not even be a world outside at all,
And with eyes half open, I see her bare chest rise and fall;
And I'm not older, but the day brings wisdom on its wings,
A welcome change.
And as she slept in my arms, I bid farewell to Casanova;
I know he meant me no harm, but now it's time for starting over:
What good was he anyway?
Walking, stumbling, through the annals of my mind:
There must be something to explain this vital flaw of mine;
And I'm not persevering with this dangerous phase I'm going through:
I owe it to myself.
And with curtains open, I see the cloudburst through the dirty panes,
And with eyes tight shut, I scan my sordid brain for what remains
Of common decency or mere capacity to love,
Surprised by what I find:
And as she slept in my arms, I bid farewell to Casanova;
I know he meant me no harm, but now it's time for starting over:
What good was he anyway?
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4. |
Liars
02:55
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We were well on our way to something worth writing home about,
And we were right on track to dispel those last little seeds of doubt.
And we talked at length about the tales that had carried our youth,
And of their input towards our liberal attitude to the truth.
But were we on our own that night or was their something under the bed?
Did you hold my gaze too tight, were my eyes too dark to be re(a)d?
But I am not the devil, but just take the apple,
No I am not the devil,
But honey I'm a liar;
Yeah I'll admit it I'm a liar:
But you're hardly the Messiah yourself.
I was well on my way to somewhere several feet up in the air,
Or in the spare room wardrobe, or the cupboard under the stairs.
And I was innocence,
And I was patience,
And more than these, I was trust.
Then I was apathy,
And I was envy,
And more than these, I was lust.
But now I'm older, I'm a liar;
No doubt about it, I'm a liar:
But you're hardly the Messiah yourself.
Did we take our lives that day, or was there someone else at the wheel?
A bitter creature on the ground, eating dust and striking your heel.
But I am not the devil...
But honey, I'm a liar;
Yeah, don't believe me, I'm a liar:
But you're hardly the Messiah yourself.
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5. |
Fresco
04:35
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And we built our home on fragile land, with fragile hopes that it would stand;
And we based our faith on hollow earth, with hollow hopes for its rebirth;
And we made our plans of what we'd do, of what we'd say if things fell through:
So we came to rest on this, our orb, our lonely sphere, our forest floor.
So we slowly grew from brittle bone and fragile flesh to hearts of stone,
And invented idols, gods, and myths to take the blame that was our own:
And created conquest, bloodshed, war, so we'd have things worth dying for;
And discovered fruit, the serpent's guile, the wisdom of a wistful smile.
So many days in this fresco of a life,
So don't be sorry for wasting mine.
So many lives in this pinprick of a day,
They're all waiting like a painting on a wall,
As if for something better, but I know there's nothing better
Than the sunrise at dawn, or the pride in a father's eyes.
And while we aged, some came to see what fools we'd been, what fools we'd be
To follow blind the path of light that darkened all there was to see;
But those faint few who found their voice were fools themselves, and had no choice
But to follow blind the whims of men, and their decrees that kept them free.
But freedom is a fickle lord that governs with a two-edge sword,
And no one really rules her tides, though many a man has often tried;
And hope, it is a fickle beast that feeds the hungry like a feast;
And time, it spreads its tendril hands and ruins all our half-formed plans.
So many days in this fresco of a life,
So I'm not sorry for wasting yours.
So many lives in this pinprick of a day,
They're all waiting like a painting on a wall,
As if for something better, but I know there's nothing better
Than the warmth of a smile, or the love in a mother's eyes.
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Tom Lowen London, UK
London-based singer, arranger, composer.
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