| Third-Class ticket in his pocket
|
| Punching out the shadows underneath the sockets
|
| Tweed coat turned up against the fog
|
| Slow coaches rolling o’er the moor
|
| Between the very memory
|
| And approaches of war
|
| Stale bread curling on a luncheon counter
|
| Loose change lonely, not the right amount
|
| Forgotten Man of an indifferent nation
|
| Waiting on a platform at a Lancashire station
|
| Somebody’s calling you again
|
| The sky is falling
|
| Jimmie’s standing in the rain
|
| Nobody wants to buy a counterfeited prairie lullaby in a colliery town
|
| A hip flask and fumbled skein with some stagedoor Josephine is all he’ll get now
|
| Eyes going in and out of focus
|
| Mild and bitter from tuberculosis
|
| Forgotten Man
|
| Indifferent nation
|
| Waiting on a platform at a Lancashire station
|
| Somebody’s calling you again
|
| The sky is falling
|
| Jimmie’s standing in the rain
|
| Her soft breath was gentle on his neck
|
| If he could choose the time to die
|
| Then he would come and go like this
|
| Underneath a painted sky
|
| She woke up and called him «Charlie"by mistake
|
| And then in shame began to cry
|
| Tarnished silver band peals off a phrase
|
| And then warms their hands around the brazier
|
| Forgotten Man
|
| Indifferent nation
|
| Waiting on a platform at a Lancashire station
|
| Somebody’s calling you again
|
| It’s finally dawning
|
| Jimmie’s standing in the rain
|
| Brilliantine glistening
|
| Your soft plaintive whistling
|
| And your wan wandering smile
|
| Died down at The Hippodrome
|
| Now you’re walking off to jeers, the lonely sound of jingling spurs, the «toodle-oos"and «Oh, my dears"down at «The Argyle»
|
| Vile vaudevillians applaud sobriety
|
| There’s no place for a half-cut cowboy in polite society
|
| Forgotten Man
|
| Indifferent nation
|
| Waiting on a platform at a Lancashire station
|
| Somebody’s calling you again
|
| It’s finally dawning
|
| Jimmie’s standing in the rain |