Prospects

A train ride to Tuesday A platform far away Scarlet shades of evening move clouds of grey Awaking, arriving The dirty station where He passes crowds of people who don't see him there Here's a desert island room For a man who's cast away Stranded in this home from home >From his family Far away Home. Well this is it This is it Is this my heart I miss you with all my heart This is not Is this not My home One shoe-lace cardboard suitcase One passport from the Queen One room for a light bulb Where no-one's been Sticks and stones, my old bones Not like nineteen fifty-four Then the liked me fine But not anymore