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| Fish Internal Exile Lucky (Dick, Boult, Simmond) He met the world as a Dalkeith boy, raised from a shaft at Monktonhall In a well oiled cage, That locked away his dreams, An '85 veteran face from the gallery, A ghost from the civil war in the family He stood his ground on the picketline 'Til all that he was left with Were his father's cough And his mother's eyes That would hold a tear For the very first time When the government took his job away. Now fist in hand he'll stand in line Declare his name and mark his time To some the only proof that they're alive He could have been you He could have been me He could have been anybody But he was born lucky He made his first down payment On a sharp Italian suit He sewed razor blades into the lapels, See him sweating on the dance floor, Cool dust oozing out of every pore A hard man with a hard life, And that's a story that he'll tell you Down at Easter Road till his throat is raw On a Saturday, he knows the score Till the whistle blows and, The colours with their tempers fade away. (chorus) On the helipads at Aberdeen, Bound for platforms drilling oil rich seas, Where the trawlers are getting fewer Every year. By the furnaces at Ravenscraig, By the padlocks holding John Brown's gates, In the desert, in the fields of South Armagh, Where the poppies grow, Behind the Hampden roar, Behind the drums in Genoa. On the deck that rides a South Atlantic swell, Born to figh tout of the tightest corner. You can bet on him with the odds against ou. They'll not put him down No matter how they try. |
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