| My whistle under the archways
|
| Still echoes down the street
|
| All the way back to Deptford days
|
| Nights down by The Creek
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| Notes as big as river boats
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| Still echoing through the clubs
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| With the horns of the trains
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| Down the old back lanes
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| And the lights of the corner pubs
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| In a taproom lined with mirrors
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| There’s a man there at the bar
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| Reminds you of somebody
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| He says I know who you are
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| He’s right, I know I could be him
|
| But anyway who is who?
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| You could be looking at
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| What he’s looking at
|
| And he’s looking at you
|
| And I’ll be out of this place
|
| And down the road wherever
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| There but for the grace, etcetera
|
| I’ll see you later but it’s 1979
|
| And I’m picking my way out of here
|
| One song at a time
|
| The slaving ports of plunder
|
| Used to stink to heaven on high
|
| Companions of honour
|
| Always were in short supply
|
| The Bristol ships and Liverpool’s
|
| On every tide they came
|
| The times they may have changed, my friend
|
| Some people stay the same
|
| And I’ll be out of this place
|
| And down the road wherever
|
| There but for the grace, etcetera
|
| I’ll see you later but it’s 1879
|
| And I’m picking my way out of here
|
| One song at a time
|
| A grinning mogul greets the crowd
|
| At Execution Dock
|
| All come to see three mutineers
|
| Turned off at twelve o’clock
|
| The shyster takes a ringside seat
|
| As they’re bringing them from the jail
|
| And twenty thousand tickets
|
| Sold online on premium sale
|
| So if you need to reach me
|
| You can leave word at The Pig
|
| I have no wish to stay around
|
| To watch that Newgate jig
|
| Or any more poor old fakers
|
| Trying to dance in my old shoes
|
| I’ll be gone over the ocean
|
| With the transatlantic blues
|
| And I’ll be out of this place
|
| And down the road wherever
|
| There but for the grace, etcetera
|
| I’ll see you later somewhere down the line
|
| I’ll be picking my way out of here
|
| One song at a time |