I live in the dead centre of town
|
Where every landlorn sailor comes to drown
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Where great ideas extinguish without sound
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And all my fickle friends have gone to ground
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So they will not come round...
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And you ask me what the problem is
|
I say it's obvious
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And I'm not lying
|
|
I live in the dead centre of town
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With one foot in the grave and one underground
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Where clocks don't go no matter how they're wound
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Boredom's king, unhappiness abounds
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And you ask me what the problem is
|
I say it's obvious
|
And I'm not lying
|
Our town is dying
|
|
I live in the dead centre of here
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Where daughters treat their daddies like King Lear
|
Who says "death's a good career prospect, dear"
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Where sinners burn in hell for half a beer
|
And you ask me what the problem is
|
I say it's obvious
|
And I'm not lying
|
Our town is dying
|
|
|
I live at the town centre of death
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Where even time is running out of breath
|
She crawls past gasping "how much have we got left?"
|
|
|
**********
|
|
|
I'll tell you
|
What the problem is
|
It's oh so obvious
|
And I'm not lying
|
Our town is dying
|
|
-----------------
|
Dead Centre of Town
|
| John Wesley Harding |
