The devil's own guest list would weep at the waste
With tears both torrential and briny to taste
You ladies from Hades, you fellers from Hell
Can all wish me well, I'll be leaving, truth to tell
But there's no rope to climb, and I'm stuck like a leech
I'm stubbornly running a race on the beach
My starter-gun feet feel the s** of wet sand
But the land is no nearer or farther from where I stand
A telegraph pole stands alone in the ground
As high as Far Royd and a horse neck around
No brothers in sight, no wire to hold
The cold like a hand raised in anger, so I'm told
I'll be on my way and torment you no more
My stick figure waltzing straight out of the door
Remember, remember who you loved the best
The rest can lay low in the valleys and stone the crows