I¡¯m a maker of ballads right pretty
|
I write them right here in the street
|
You can buy them all over the city
|
yours for a penny a sheet
|
I¡¯m a word pecker out of the printers
|
Out of the dens of Gin Lane
|
I¡¯ll write up a scene on a counter
|
- confessions and sins in the main, boys
|
confessions and sins in the main
|
|
Then you¡¯ll find me in Madame Geneva¡¯s
|
keeping the demons at bay
|
There¡¯s nothing like gin for drowning them in
|
but they¡¯ll always be back on a hanging day
|
|
They come rattling over the cobbles
|
they sit on their coffins of black
|
Some are struck dumb, some gabble
|
top-heavy on brandy or sack
|
The pews are all full of fine fellows
|
and the hawker has set up her shop
|
As they¡¯re turning them off at the gallows
|
she¡¯ll be selling right under the drop, boys
|
selling right under the drop
|
|
Then you¡¯ll find me in Madame Geneva¡¯s
|
keeping the demons at bay
|
There¡¯s nothing like gin for drowning them in
|
but they¡¯ll always be back on a hanging day
|
|
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|
Madame Geneva's
|
| Mark Knopfler |
