Stormwatch

Black and viscous bound to cure blue lethargy. 

Sugar-plum petroleum for energy. 

Tightrope-balanced payments need a small reprieve 

Oh, please believe we want to be 

in North Sea… 

in North Sea Oil. 

New-found wealth sits on the shelf of yesterday. 

Hot-air balloon inflation soon will make you pay. 

Riggers rig and diggers dig their shallow grave. 

But we'll be saved and what we crave 

is North Sea… 

is North Sea Oil. 



Prices boom in Aberdeen and London Town. 

Ten more years to lay the fears, erase the frown. 

Before we are all nuclear the better way! 

Oh, let us pray: we want to stay 

in North Sea… 

in North Sea… 

in North Sea Oil.

Orion, won't you give me your star sign. 

Orion, get up on the sky-line. 

I'm high on my hill and I feel fine. 

Orion, let's sip the heaven's heady wine. 

Orion, light your lights: 

come guard the open spaces 

from the black horizon to the pillow where I lie. 

Your faithful dog shines brighter than its lord and master. 

Your jewelled sword twinkles as the world rolls by. 

So come up singing above the cloudy cover 

stare through at people who toss fitful in their sleep. 

I know you're watching as the old gent by the station 

scuffs his toes on old fag packets lying in the street. 



Orion, won't you give me your star sign. 

Orion, get up on the sky-line. 

I'm high on my hill and I feel fine. 

Orion, let's sip the heaven's heady wine. 



And silver shadows flick across the closing bistro. 

Sweet waiters link their arms and patter down the street, 

their words lost blowing on cold winds in darkest Chelsea. 

Prime years fly fading with each young heart's beat. 



Orion, won't you make me a star sign. 

Orion, get up on the sky-line. 

I'm high on your love and I feel fine. 

Orion, let's sip the heaven's heady wine. 



And young girls shiver as they wait by lonely bus-stops 

after sad parties: no-one to take them home 

to greasy bed-sitters and make a late-night play 

for lost virginity a thousand miles away. 



Orion, won't you make me a star sign. 

Orion, get up on the sky-line. 

I'm high on your love and I feel fine. 

Orion, let's sip the heaven's heady wine.

As the dawn sun breaks over sleepy gardens 

I'll be here to do all things to comfort you. 

And though I've been away 

left you alone this way 

why don't you come awake 

and let your first smile take me home. 

The shadows in the park were longer yesterday 

and Lady Luck stood still, waiting for the kill. 

And on a jumbo ride 

over seas grey, deep and wide 

I flew for heaven's sake 

and let the angels take me home. 

Down steep and narrow lanes I see the chimneys smoking 

above the golden fields… know what the robin feels 

in his summer jamboree. 

All elements agree 

in sweet and stormy blend 

midwife to winds that send me home.

Darlings are you ready for the long winter's fall? 

Said the lady in her parlor 

said the butler in the hall. 

Is there time for another? 

Cried the drunkard in his sleep. 

Not likely said the little child. 

What's done the Lord can keep. 

And the vicar stands a-praying. 

And the television dies 

as the white dot flickers and is gone 

and no-one stops to cry. 

Dark Ages 

shaking the dead 

Closed pages 

better not read 

Cold rages 

burn in your head. 



The big jet rumbles over runway miles 

that scar the patchwork green 

where slick tycoons and rich buffoons 

have opened up the seam 

of golden nights and champagne flights 

ad-man overkill 

and in the haze 

consumer crazed 

we take the sugar pill. 



Dark Ages 

shaking the dead 

Closed pages 

better not read 

Cold rages 

burn in your head. 



Jagged fires mark the picket lines 

the politicians weep 

and mealy-mouthed down corridors of power on tip-toe creep. 

Come and see bureaucracy 

make its final heave 

and let the new disorder through 

while senses take their leave. 



Dark Ages 

shaking the dead 

Closed pages 

better not read 

Cold rages 

burn in your head. 



Families screaming line the streets 

and put the windows through 

in corner shops 

where keepers kept 

the country's life-blood blue. 

Take their pick 

and try the trick 

with loaves and fishes shared 

and the vicar shouts 

as the lights go out, 

and no-one really cares. 



Dark Ages 

shaking the dead 

Closed pages 

better not read 

Cold rages 

burn in your head. 



Darlings are you ready for the long winter's fall? 

Said the lady in her parlor 

said the butler in the hall. 



Dark Ages 

shaking the dead 

Closed pages 

better not read 

Cold rages 

burn in your head.

She wore a black tiara 

rare gems upon her fingers 

and she came from distant waters 

where northern lights explode 

to celebrate the dawning 

of the new wastes of winter 

gathering royal momentum 

on the icy road. 

With chill mists swirling 

like petticoats in motion 

sighted on horizons 

for ten thousand years 

the lady of the ice sounds 

a deathly distant rumble 

to Titanic-breaking children lost 

in melting crystal tears. 

Capturing black pieces 

in a glass-fronted museum 

the white queen rolls 

on the chessboard of the dawn 

squeezing through the valleys 

pausing briefly in the corries 

the Ice-Mother mates 

and a new age is born. 

Driving all before her 

un-stoppable, un-straining 

her cold creaking mass 

follows reindeer down. 

Thin spreading fingers seek 

to embrace the sill-warm bundles 

that huddle on the doorsteps 

of a white London Town. 

Oh, sunshine take me now away from here 

I'm a needle on a spiral in a groove. 

And the turntable spins 

as the last waltz begins 

And the weather-man says 

something's on the move.

Hair stands high on the cat's back like 

a ridge of threatening hills. 

Sheepdogs howl, make tracks and growl 

their tails hanging low. 

And young children falter in their games 

at the altar of life's hide-and-seek 

between tall pillars, where Sunday-night killers 

in grey raincoats peek. 

Misty colours unfold a backcloth cold 

fine tapestry of silk 



I draw around me like a cloak 

and soundless glide a-drifting 

on eddies whirled in beech leaves furled 

brown and gold they fly 

in the warm mesh of sunlight 

sifting now from a cloudless sky. 



I'll be coming again like an old dog in pain 

Blown through the eye of the hurricane 

Down to the stones where old ghosts play.

Spoken Intro: 

(Lines join in faint discord and the stormwatch brews 

a concert of kings as the white sea snaps 

at the heels of a soft prayer 

whispered.....) 

Clear light on a slick palm 

as I mis-deal 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. 

Oh, and we'll watch the old gods play 

by Dun Ringill, by Dun Ringill. 



We'll wait in stone circles 

'til the force comes through. 

Lines join in faint discord 

and 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. 

Oh, and I'll take you quickly 

by Dun Ringill, 

by Dun Ringill, 

by Dun Ringill.

Old lady with a barrow; life near ending 

Standing by the harbour wall; warm wishes sending 

children on the cold sea swell 

not fishers of men 

gone to chase away the last herring: 

come empty home again. 

So come all you lovers of the good life 

on your supermarket run 

Set a sail of your own devising 

and be there when the Dutchman comes. 

Wee girl in a straw hat: from far east warring 

Sad cargo of an old ship: young bodies whoring 

Slow ocean hobo ports closed to her crew 

No hope of immigration keep on passing through. 

So come all you lovers of the good life 

your children playing in the sun 

set a sympathetic flag a-flying 

and be there when the Dutchman comes. 



Death grinning like a scarecrow Flying Dutchman 

Seagull pilots flown from nowhere try and touch one 

as she slips in on the full tide 

and the harbour-master yells 

All hands vanished with the captain 

no one left, the tale to tell. 



So come all you lovers of the good life 

Look around you, can you see? 

Staring ghostly in the mirror 

it's the Dutchman you will be 

floating slowly out to sea 

in a misty misery.