 Clear light on a slick palm, as I misdeal the day
Slip the night from a shaved pack, make a marked card play
Call twilight hours down, from a heaven home
High above the highest bidder, for the good Lord’s throne
In the wee hours I’ll meet you
Down by Dun Ringill
We’ll wait in stone circles, till the force comes through
Lines join in faint discord, as the stormwatch brews
A concert of kings, as the white sea snaps at the heels of a soft prayer
Whispered
In the wee hours I’ll meet you
Down by Dun Ringill
 -Ian Anderson, 1979
|
|
| I'd love to know exactly what this song is about. I seem to remember Ian himself saying it was a poem about Viking invasion, and futile attempts to escape it. Who knows. In any case, it's a cracking song, Dun Ringill, see my Tull videos page. The video is not as good as the song though.
|
|
The disc brakes drag, the chequered flag
Sweeps across, the oil slick track
The young man’s home dry as a bone, his helmet off, he waves
The crowd waves back
One lap victory roll, a gladiator soul
The taker of the day, in winning has to say
Isn’t it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive?
The sunlight streaks through the curtain cracks
Touches the old man where he sleeps
The nurse brings up a cup of tea
Two biscuits and the morning paper mystery
The hard road’s end, the white God’s send
Is nearer every day, in dying the old man says
Isn’t it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive?-
|
|
The still-born child, can’t feel the rain
As the chequered flag falls once again
The deaf composer completes his final score
He’ll never hear the sweet encore
The chequered flag, the bull’s red rag
The lemming-hearted hoardes, running ever faster
To the shore, singing
Isn’t it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive?-Ian Anderson, 1976
|
|
| From the song, The Chequered Flag, proof that sensitivity in song lyrics does not have to revolve around romantic encounter.
|
|
|
Oh the leaded window opened, to move the dancing candle flame
And the first moths of summer, suicidal came
And a new breeze chattered, in its May bud tenderness
Sending water lilies sailing, as she turned to get undressed
And the long night awakened, and we soared on powdered wings
Circling our tomorrows, in the wary month of spring
Chasing shadows slipping, in the magic lantern slide
Creatures of the candle, on a night light ride
Dipping and weaving, flutter through the golden needle’s eye
In our haystack madness, butterfly stroking on a spring-tide high
On a spring-tide high-
|
|
Life’s too long, as the lemming said
As the candle burned and the moths were wed
And we’ll all burn together as the wick grows higher
Before the candle’s dead
Oh the leaded window opened, to move the dancing candle flame
And the first moths of summer, suicidal came
To join in the worship, of the light that never dies
In the moment’s reflection, of two moths spinning in her eyes-Ian Anderson, 1978
|
|
| Like I said, if your wife can do this to your creative juices, you've met a match to make the needle seem as blunt as a courgette.
|
|
|
Site by Web Design Lincoln
