Love Death and Whiskey - 40 Songs, Page 3

one will know you but me.

  They have closed the border,

  they have shackled the gate.

  Who gave the order

  decided our fate.

  The men in the tower

  stand early and late.

  They have closed the border,

  I will stand here and wait.

  Do not wave, do not sign,

  do not show you are mine

  for who knows who will watch and will see?

  You must stand, and stand still,

  your blue gown on that hill,

  and no one will know you but me.

  I will stand by the wire,

  the barb on my cheek.

  I will stand by the wire

  cold blooded and meek.

  They have closed the border,

  I cannot get through.

  I will stand by the wire

  and pray I see you.

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  I met my love in Baltimore

  I met my love in Baltimore

  behind the greyhound station.

  He changed a banknote for the phone,

  I changed his destination.

  We went south cross Carolina,

  cause he’d never been there,

  took a fancy to Savannah,

  saw the new year in there.

  All journeys deviate:

  you may think your road is straight,

  but you learn, and learn too late,

  I never meant to be here.

  There was work in Louisiana:

  we pulled on our new blue jeans,

  bought a postcard of Savannah

  to show in New Orleans.

  There we listened to the jazzmen,

  arm in arm in Jackson Square,

  far too happy to examine

  the chance that took us there.

  All journeys deviate:

  you may think your road is straight,

  but you learn, and learn too late,

  I never meant to be here.

  I don’t mind the south in summer

  but I like to see the autumn;

  saw two tickets for New Hampshire.

  Like a fool I bought them.

  He called me a rootless drifter.

  I said he was stuck in mud.

  Further argument came swifter,

  too much harm for little good.

  All journeys deviate:

  you may think your road is straight,

  but you learn, and learn too late,

  I never meant to be here.

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  Shabby dress

  And in the evening, home from work,

  I take my key and climb the stair,

  and find her waiting in the dark,

  so still I hardly know she’s there,

  but meeting her is no surprise,

  I know her well, her sad grey eyes,

  her long brown hair, her shabby dress.

  I say, hello, my loneliness.

  I push the door and let her in,

  and pour myself an evening drink.

  The empty bottles in the bin,

  the dirty dishes in the sink,

  they do not move, they do not stir,

  yet everything is touched by her.

  Her sad grey eyes, her shabby dress,

  I contemplate my loneliness.

  My loneliness, she likes the nights,

  she likes to sit beneath the stars,

  too shy to come out to the lights

  and meet my friends in public bars,

  and they don’t like to hear her named,

  and truthfully I am ashamed,

  ashamed of her, her shabby dress, 49

  her sad grey eyes, my loneliness.

  But she, she doesn’t seem to mind,

  she never comments anyhow,

  but patiently and always kind

  she settles down beside me now,

  and she will spend the evening there,

  just watching through her long brown hair.

  Her sad grey eyes, her shabby dress,

  I’m used to her, my loneliness.

  Note:

  Written in homage to La Solitude, paroles et musique par Barbara.

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  Sunflowers

  I went back to the old place yesterday,

  just to show myself I could.

  It wasn’t far to drive out of my way,

  and the roads were always good.

  The cottage looked ramshackle, overgrown,

  the garden gone to seed,

  50 with everything we’d planted overthrown,

  and every flower a weed.

  I peered through grimy windows. Did I think

  I’d see you still in there,

  rinsing out paint brushes at the sink,

  the lamplight in your hair?

  And then I turned a corner. There they were,

  the sunflowers, standing in a line,

  and for a fragile moment in the air

  the scent of oil and turpentine.

  You always painted sunflowers. Sunflowers

  were your image of the earth.

  They have a true philosophy. They love

  the sun that gave them birth.

  You always painted sunflowers, towering

  above your brown and naked child.

  We lived amongst the sunflowers, flowering 51

  on your canvas, growing wild.

  You always painted sunflowers, gleaming

  the way you said that only sunflowers do.

  I never understood the sunflowers’ meaning

  or understood what sunflowers meant to you.

  I went back to the old place yesterday,

  and I thought you’d like to know

  whatever might have come and come what may

  the sunflowers grow…

  the sunflowers grow…

  the sunflowers grow…

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  Tooting Bec

  I lost my heart in Tooting Bec.

  I stood amazed and fearful,

  for there she kissed me on the neck

  and whispered in my earhole.

  O, those southern girls,

  so hot blooded.

  I must go back to Walworth now,

  to mum and dad and brother,

  and I must find the nerve somehow

  to tell them that I love her.

  My dad will snort behind his paper,

  my little brother snigger,

  but what I say is, soon or later,

  he’ll know better when he’s bigger.

  My mum will put her knitting down –

  she’s always knitting new things –

  and all she’ll say is, listen son,

  they’re funny folk in Tooting.

  O is it that hot southern sun,

  that melts the very tarmac,

  that makes the blood of Tooting run

  so passionate and ardent?

  Or is it that the southern stars

  have power beyond the normal,

  while we in Walworth live our lives

  so strait-laced and so formal?

  O she is like the southern sun

  that burns from May to August,

  and she is like that southern sun

  that burns as fierce as sawdust.

  And when she touches me I burn

  as bright, as hot as she does.

  and as I travel north I yearn

  to travel south to see her.

  O those southern girls,

  so hot blooded.

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  In Madrid

  You ask me where I am going:

  if I told you you’d not let me go.

  You ask me my reason for travel:


  the truth is I’m not sure I know.

  But I know there’s a fair southern country

  whose people cry out to be free.

  They have called on the world to come help them,

  and I know that the world includes me.

  So I go, as I must,

  to Madrid,

  to drink or to fight,

  to love or be lonely,

  to live or to die

  in Madrid.

  You notice I carry no baggage:

  I live on whatever I find,

  and I look for a way of discarding

  the baggage I have in my mind.

  In the end this time calls for action,

  and leaving such baggage behind,

  and putting your mouth where your heart is,

  and putting your heart on the line.

  So I go, as I must,

  to Madrid,

  to drink or to fight,

  to love or be lonely,

  to live or to die

  in Madrid.

  That man in the heat of the battle

  played a brave and responsible part;

  near the University quarter

  he fell, a shot through the heart.

  His comrades recovered the body

  and carried him down to the square,

  and gathered a posy of flowers,

  for they knew, everyone that was there,

  they had come, as they must

  to Madrid,

  to drink or to fight,

  to love or be lonely,

  to live or to die

  in Madrid.

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  The mermaid and the drunks

  The mermaid came out of the river

  where the river reaches the sea;

  she paused on the strand to stand and shiver

  and brush the sand from her knee.

  Naked, the sea king’s daughter

  stood on the moonlit sand;

  she had come from that kingdom under the water

  to see how they live on the land.

  The drunks in the bar by the harbour

  were singing

  of Mollie and Jeannie,

  were singing

  of Nellie and Ann:

  the mermaid, enticed to that bright neon arbour,

  entered the kingdom of man.

  The drunks were amazed by this vision.

  They ceased their drinking and lies,

  and then, with a scowl, and a howl of derision,

  refused to credit their eyes.

  They threw corks

  and bottle tops,

  they spat

  and screamed in her face.

  They burnt her

  with the butts of cigarettes.

  They leant on a good pal’s shoulder

  and shuddered with glee.

  Heart that had never known fear did not sigh,

  eye that had never known tear did not cry.

  Heart that had never known fear did not sigh,

  eye that had never known tear did not cry.

  The mermaid looked at the drinkers,

  she studied each wrinkled face,

  and, bemused by this college of scholars and thinkers,

  returned to the ocean and peace.

  And the drunks, they drank something rotten,

  and slept, their aim from the first.

  At a loss to recall what it was they’d forgotten

  they woke to headaches and thirst.

  Note:

  This song is a version of Pablo Neruda, Fabula de la sirena y los borrachos.

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  Barbara, remember

  Barbara, remember:

  it rained all day.

  I walked round the town

  and lost my way.

  Two hours to kill

  before my train,

  and the rain came down,

  the happy rain.

  And you ran through the rain, Barbara,

  laughing eyes and wet hair,

  and your tall man stood waiting

  in a sheltered door,

  and he called out your name, Barbara,

  he called out your name,

  and you ran to his arms, Barbara,

  you ran through the rain.

  Barbara, remember:

  he held you close

  and put his hands

  round your merry face,

  and he said your name,

  and kissed your mouth:

  all this I saw

  and I loved you both.

  I hope you don’t mind that, Barbara,

  but I loved you then

  for your bright merry face

  and your tall loving man,

  and I wished you well, Barbara,

  o I wished you well,

  as you stood there together

  and the good rain fell.

  Barbara, I remember:

  the rain came down,

  I walked round the streets

  of that little town.

  You and your man

  in the wet cobbled street,

  and I happened by

  and saw you meet.

  I saw you that once, Barbara,

  and only that once,

  and I wonder what life

  has done to you since,

  for life can be stupid, Barbara,

  as maybe you know,

  but I hope, o I hope, Barbara

  but I hope that life’s been good to you.

  There was so much in you then, Barbara,

  so much goodness and laughter,

  I know you lived well,

  whatever came after,

  and I want to believe, Barbara,

  that someone like you

  will live long and merrily,

  graceful and true.

  Barbara, remember:

  you laughed as you ran,

  you ran through the rain

  to be with your man,

  and I walked by,

  went on my way,

  on through the rain.

  It rained all day.

  Barbara, remember:

  it rained all day.

  I walked round the town

  and lost my way.

  Two hours to kill

  before my train,

  and the rain came down,

  the happy rain.

  Note:

  ‘Rappelle-toi Barbara’ - this song is a version of Jacques Prévert’s poem, Barbara.

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  Pierre

  I went to the café

  to meet Pierre.

  I went to the café,

  Pierre wasn’t there.

  Neither was Napoleon

  in that café,

  but Pierre

  wasn’t there

  in Pierre’s special way.

  Note:

  This song summarises Chapter 1 of Jean-Paul Sartre Being and Nothingness. Except that where he has (or does not have) Wellington we have (or do not have) Napoleon.

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  And Finally…

  Thank you for reading my song lyrics. A special thank you if you have been singing my song lyrics.

  This book, Love Death and Whiskey – 40 Songs by Patrick O’Sullivan, gives some samples of my work, including old favourites, some new work and songs written for specific occasions. I still write songs – I just need a little encouragement.

  This book is available in print from most online retailers.

  For permission to make further use of the song lyrics collected in this book contact [email protected]

  Patrick O’Sullivan

  Bradford

  2010

  Copyright © Patrick O’Sullivan 2010

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