Singer
Sing your sweet songs
Your hallelujahs
Your California dreaming
Singer
Sing your sweet songs
Oh Spanish guitar
Strum your tune away
Your footsteps in the sand
Your castles and diamonds
Oh Spanish guitar
Strum your tune away
Mocking bird
Fly your wings away
Here to stay
Here till Saturday
Mocking bird
Fly your wings away
And still I go on floating
I can’t explain the feeling so
But you can tell from my writing
It’s not too too easy letting go
But truly there’s no fever crazy
Nothing’s driving me, not live nor lazy
No absence making feelings fonder
No loss or absent mind to wander
It’s a most unusual face, to face
In the morning when I’ve slept well
I just get on with what I have got to do
No remorse or rekindling, hurts not breaking through
But I know it’s not me that’s holding
Lack of scolding feeling not of my conscious making
Yet something else, something unknown is going on
For how long, how long, how long, how…
My befriended mind descended
Lent itself a favour, or was it two
The bitterness is ended
It could not, could not be defended
My censored mind now is scented
Meant for long to labour
Except that now it is all spent through
The bitterness is indeed near on ended
Now it’s the sweet memories
My sweet memories being mended
The purple pink ink was sprinkling
Words deeper than the page could print
The deep red sun in the sky was sinking
Skies hues bluer than the blackest ink
The vermouth gin was drinking
Crazed, laced, aniseed, menthe and mint
The blue black sky had summers stars a twinkling
Skies light, whitest snowball cocktail drink
The drink distilled the multicoloured inks
The pink blue sky nigh on caught the writers eye
The instinct was to close, the amber nectar rose
A painter shaped his pose, a poet had another drink
On board
On board the Archangel Michael
Kos, a present from the English
For helping win the freedom war
Took from 45 to 58 to get the papers sorted
On board
On board the Archangel Michael
An anchor slip on the wooden ship
Island sun, nun forsaking nun
The purple sage has read you
The sprigs and the twigs are to tread through
On board
On board the Archangel Michael
A floating boat of hope
Worry beads, religions icons, photos of the pope
And Greek Orthodoxy for the crew
On board
On board the Archangel Michael
A landing stage for boats to lay
A slip of sand, a welcome hand
The island blade has read you
The boats and warmer coats
We’re all just floating through
