Orion, won't you give me your star sign
Orion, get up on the sky-line
I'm high on my hill and I feel fine
Orion, let's sip the heaven's heady wine

Orion, light your lights:
come guard the open spaces
from the black horizon
to the pillow where I lie.
Your faithful dog shines brighter than its lord and master
Your jewelled sword twinkles as the world rolls by.

So come up singing above the cloudy cover
stare through at people
who toss fitful in their sleep.
I know you're watching as the old gent by the station
scuffs his toes on
old fag packets lying in the street.

Orion, won't you give me your star sign
Orion, get up on the sky-line
I'm high on my hill and I feel fine
Orion, let's sip the heaven's heady wine

And silver shadows flick across the closing bistro.
Sweet waiters link their arms
and patter down the street,
their words lost blowing on
cold winds in darkest Chelsea.
Prime years fly fading
with each young heart's beat

Orion, won't you make me a star sign
Orion, get up on the sky-line
I'm high on your love and I feel fine
Orion, let's sip the heaven's heady wine

And young girls shiver as
they wait by lonely bus-stops
after sad parties: no-one to take them home.
To greasy bed-sitters and make a late-night play
for lost virginity a thousand miles away.

Orion, won't you make me a star sign
Orion, get up on the sky-line
I'm high on your love and I feel fine
Orion, let's sip the heaven's heady wine.

As the dawn sun breaks over sleepy gardens
I'll be here to do all things to comfort you.
And though I've been away, left you alone this way
why don't you come awake
and let your first smile take me home.

The shadows in the park were longer yesterday
and Lady Luck stood still,
waiting for the kill.
And on a jumbo ride
over seas grey, deep and wide
I flew for heaven's sake
and let the angels take me home.

Down steep and narrow lanes
I see the chimneys smoking
above the golden fields ...
know what the robin feels
in his summer jamboree.
All elements agree
in sweet and stormy blend ---
midwife to winds that send me home.
 

Darlings are you ready
for the long winter's fall?
said the lady in her parlor
said the butler in the hall.
Is there time for another?
cried the drunkard in his sleep.
Not likely said the little child.
What's done the Lord can keep.
And the vicar stands a-praying.
And the television dies
as the white dot flickers and is gone
and no-one stops to cry.

Dark Ages shaking the dead
Closed pages better not read
Cold rages burn in your head.

The big jet rumbles over runway miles
that scar the patchwork green
where slick tycoons and rich buffoons
have opened up the seam
of golden nights and champagne flights
ad-man overkill and in the haze
consumer crazed
we take the sugar pill.

Dark Ages shaking the dead
Closed pages better not read
Cold rages burn in your head.

Jagged fires mark the picket lines
the politicians weep
and mealy-mouthed
through corridors of power on tip-toe creep.
Come and see bureaucracy
make its final heave
and let the new disorder through
while senses take their leave.

Dark Ages shaking the dead
Closed pages better not read
Cold rages burn in your head.

Families screaming line the streets
and put the windows through in corner shops
where keepers kept
the country's life-blood blue.
Take their pick and try the trick
with loaves and fishes shared
and the vicar shouts
as the lights go out,
and no-one really cares.

Dark Ages shaking the dead
Closed pages better not read
Cold rages burn in your head.

Darlings are you ready
for the long winter's fall?
said the lady in her parlor
said the butler in the hall.
 

She wore a black tiara
rare gems upon her fingers
and she came from distant waters
where northern lights explode
to celebrate the dawning
of the new wastes of winter,
gathering royal momentum on the icy road.
With chill mists swirling
like petticoats in motion
sighted on horizons
for ten thousand years
the lady of the ice sounds
a deathly distant rumble
to Titanic-breaking children lost
in melting crystal tears.

Oh, sunshine take me now away from here
I'm a needle on a spiral in a groove.
And the turntable spins as the last waltz begins
And the weather-man says
something's on the move.

Capturing black pieces
in a glass-fronted museum
the white queen rolls
on the chessboard of the dawn
squeezing through the valleys
pausing briefly in the corries
the Ice-Mother mates and a new age is born.

Oh, sunshine take me now away from here
I'm a needle on a spiral in a groove.
And the turntable spins as the last waltz begins
And the weather-man says
something's on the move.

Driving all before her
un-stoppable, un-straining
her cold creaking mass
follows reindeer down.
Thin spreading fingers seek
to embrace the sill-warm bundles
that huddle on the doorsteps
of a white London Town.

Oh, sunshine take me now away from here
I'm a needle on a spiral in a groove.
And the turntable spins as the last waltz begins
And the weather-man says
something's on the move.

Hair stands high on the cat's back like
a ridge of threatening hills.
Sheepdogs howl, make tracks and growl
their tails hanging low.
And young children falter in their games
at the altar of life's hide-and-seek
between tall pillars, where Sunday-night killers
in grey raincoats peek.

I'll be coming again like an old dog in pain
Blown through the eye of the hurricane
Down to the stones where old ghosts play.

Misty colours unfold a backcloth cold
fine tapestry of silk
I draw around me like a cloak
and soundless glide a-drifting
on eddies whirled in beech leaves furled
brown and gold they fly
in the warm mesh of sunlight
sifting now from a cloudless sky.

I'll be coming again like an old dog in pain
Blown through the eye of the hurricane
Down to the stones where old ghosts play.
 

Lines joint in faint discord
and the stormwatch brews
a concert of kings as the white sea snaps
at the heels of a soft prayer whispered

Clear light on a slick palm
as I mis-deal the day
Slip the night from a shaved pack
make a marked card play
Call twilight hours down
from a heaven home
high above the highest bidder
for the good Lord's throne
In the wee hours I'll meet you
down by Dun Ringill
oh, and we'll watch the old gods play
by Dun Ringill
We'll wait in stone circles
`til the force comes through ---
lines joint in faint discord
and the stormwatch brews
a concert of kings as the white sea snaps
at the heels of a soft prayer whispered
In the wee hours I'll meet you
down by Dun Ringill ---
oh, and I'll take you quickly by Dun Ringill.
 

Old lady with a barrow;
life near ending.
Standing by the harbour wall;
warm wishes sending
children on the cold sea swell
not fishers of men
gone to chase away the last herring:
come empty home again.

So come all you lovers of the good life
on your supermarket run
Set a sail of your own devising
and be there when the Dutchman comes,
and be there when the Dutchman comes.

Wee girl in a straw hat:
from far east warring
Sad cargo of an old ship:
young bodies whoring
Slow ocean hobo
ports closed to her crew
No hope of immigration
keep on passing through.

So come all you lovers of the good life
your children playing in the sun
set a sympathetic flag a-flying
and be there when the Dutchman comes
and be there when the Dutchman comes.

Death grinning like a scarecrow
Flying Dutchman
Seagull pilots flown from nowhere
try and touch one
as she slips in on the full tide
and the harbour-master yells
All hands vanished with the captain
no one left, the tale to tell.

So come all you lovers of the good life
Look around you, can you see?
Staring ghostly from the mirror ---
it's the Dutchman you will be
..floating slowly out to sea
in a misty misery.