Voices on the Wind.
In the ‘Grapes on Roscoe, winter 1979, out of luck on his toes, learning how to survive. Schooled by a world that refused to care about the past and equal shares and thus each night you’d find him there, In the ‘Grapes on Roscoe.
And he ran and he shivered and went looking for his gun, but they’re bulletproof these bastards’ mate, and it seems their time has come.
The voices carried on the wind, dismembered, cold unreal, he lost his mind with a Mickey Finn, we all know how that feels. Ignored by lady luck thus far, propped up each night at the bar, in a cheap suit with a cheap cigar. In the ‘Grapes on Roscoe.
And he cried and he shivered but still says he’s having fun, they’re bulletproof these bastards’ mate, public enemy number one.
In an empty house up on Lark Lane, he spoke his final words, of stolen pride and livelihood they stole the feathers from his Liverbird. He had stumbled he had shivered too many days spent on the run, but they’re coming for your children next, each and every one.
And he cried and he shivered and went looking for his pin, they’ll sell you your demise my friend, the war you cannot win.
They found him frozen to the floor the house had no roof, nor golden sky, chained to the bike they told him to ride down south for a better way of life. Away from here the streets he knew, they’ve destroyed him, they’ll come for you, the false prophets that trade hope for doom, because history repeats itself that’s true.
Shall we run, will we win, or go looking for a gun, are they bulletproof these bastards’ mate, or has our time finally come?
They still talk about him in the ‘Grapes, when memories are drunk and shared, survivors of that wintertime, when nobody seemed to care. They say it was a tragedy, a long, disturbing dream, but now? He’s sleeping peacefully with all the other, should have been’s.
The voices carried on the wind, dismembered, cold unreal, he lost his mind with a Mickey Finn, we all know how that feels. Ignored by lady luck thus far, propped up each night at the bar, in a cheap suit with a cheap cigar.
In the ‘Grapes on Roscoe.
And we cry and we remember and we’ve long since put down our guns, now there’s flowers on the battlefield of the war that no one won
Up the Reds. x