Shape and Colour
I've got a closet filled with old clothes.
And a leather suitcase stuffed with letters from women I met at sea.
Once I was a handsome sailor. I'd cross deep waters and land in wanting ports. A girl would love me, would plead to come aboard forever, for all our tomorrows together.
At night under the ocean's moon, alone I would sail away.
The Northern Cross was always my friend.
The Southern Cross was stormy weather.
I am old, a landlubber who only dreams the sea.
Years ago I could kiss their Spanish lips.
Now my short breath burns from rolled cigarettes.
My dry thirst whetted by cheap whiskey.
Like an ancient mariner, I got tales to tell, but the smiling senoritas can't hear.
I don't believe in no mystic.
I don't feel any muse can hear me.
I look in the mirror. The old clothes don't fit so well. They no longer have shape and colour, the style is long gone. And paper yellows over time.
Sail away' together to the Southern Cross in stormy weather.
I write a story:
Then I drink and weep for lost ships and women who wait no more for an old sailor's love.