Savage night on a misty island. Lights wink out in the
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canyon walls.
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Two old boys in a stolen racer. Black rubber contrails in
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the unwashed halls.
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And all roads out of here, seem to lead right back to the
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Rock Island.
|
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I've gone back to Paris, London, and even riding on a
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jumbo to Bombay.
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The long haul back holds faint attraction, but the people
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here know they're o.k.
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See the girl following the red balloon: walking all alone
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on her Rock Island.
|
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Doesn't everyone have their own Rock Island? Their own little
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patch of sand?
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Where the slow waves crawl and your angels fall and you find
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you can hardly stand.
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And just as you're drowning, well, the tide goes down.
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And you're back on your Rock Island.
|
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Hey there girlie with the torn dress, shaking: who was it
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touched you? Who was it ruined your day?
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Whose footprint calling card? And what they want, stepping
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on your beach anyway?
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I'll be your life raft out of here, but you'd only drift right
|
back to your Rock Island.
|
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Hey, boy with the personal stereo: nothing `tween the ears
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but that hard rock sound.
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Playing to your empty room, empty guitar tune, No use waiting
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for that C.B.S. to come around.
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`Cos all roads out of here, seem to lead right back to your
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Rock Island.
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|
-----------------
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Rock Island
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| Jethro Tull |
