in the wee dark hours of this morn we set flight……
James, myself and a flagon of whiskey to warm the cockles…off to America…off to the promised land…the last bastion of freedom…the cars as big as bars and the rivers of gold and the wind blows right through you tis no place for the old…ah yes…your ever grateful gents and purveyors of raucous rock, Class of 1984 are off…to see sights and sounds and zeroed grounds…into the night we fly….and who knows whence we will return again to the emerald isles of Eire…her green and crooked landscape bids us fare well…a leafy hand raised in a slow wave…and we too wave back…”no longer will our young be raised for export”…not likely…class of 1984 are in search of gold…talk soon
Goodbyeee
in the wee dark hours of this morn we set flight……
James, myself and a flagon of whiskey to warm the cockles…off to America…off to the promised land…the last bastion of freedom…the cars as big as bars and the rivers of gold and the wind blows right through you tis no place for the old…ah yes…your ever grateful gents and purveyors of raucous rock, Class of 1984 are off…to see sights and sounds and zeroed grounds…into the night we fly….and who knows whence we will return again to the emerald isles of Eire…her green and crooked landscape bids us fare well…a leafy hand raised in a slow wave…and we too wave back…”no longer will our young be raised for export”…not likely…class of 1984 are in search of gold…talk soon