| He’s a king, he’s a poor boy,
|
| a tower in a stream,
|
| see him standing there so all alone
|
| well I guess he’ll keep standing there,
|
| until he’s called for
|
| and tomorrows hurricanes have blown
|
| its his fate through old
|
| another story told
|
| He found no trust to call his own
|
| His way was lost
|
| his spirit was the cost,
|
| he couldn’t make up for the loan
|
| But many brave men are returning,
|
| back to the place where it began
|
| and all our tires are still burning,
|
| when the devils faults lay parching in the sands
|
| and the nightman is waiting at the station,
|
| gathered on the steps one by one
|
| I suggest, that you make a reservation,
|
| before all these things are done
|
| upon high the blues
|
| his life was filled with pain
|
| when he heard the news
|
| he lost a line in vain
|
| someone went for word
|
| his house went up in flames
|
| they didn’t need the smoke
|
| to show the cops the blame
|
| all your secrets
|
| they’ve all been told
|
| playing in your Scarlet and your Gold
|
| He’s a king, he’s a poor boy,
|
| a tower in a stream,
|
| see him standing out there so all alone
|
| well I guess he’ll keep standing there,
|
| until he’s called for
|
| and tomorrows hurricanes have blown
|
| But many brave men are returning
|
| back to the place where it began
|
| and our tires are still burning
|
| when the devils faults lay parching in the sands
|
| and the nightman is waiting at the station,
|
| gathered on the steps one by one
|
| I suggest, that you make a reservation
|
| before all these things are done |