when you run, digger, runner,
listener, thief, you carry it all with you.
today i woke up uncertain,
and you know that gives me the fits,
so i left this land of fungible convictions
because it seemed like the pits.
and when i say, "conviction" i mean it's something to abjure
and when i say "uncertain" i mean to doubt i'll not turn out a caricature.
so i set off in search of my forebears,
coz my forbearance was in need,,
but the only job i could get in dear old blighty
was working on the railway between selby and leeds.
so i took a ferry to belfast, where i had cause to think:
they wanted none of my arm-chair convictions
but nobody seemed to mind when i was putting on the drinks!
and you didn't think they could hate you, now did you?
you didn't think they could hate you, now did you?
you didn't think they could hate you, now did you?
ah, but they hate you, and they hate you 'coz you're guilty,
so...i stayed out all night in ibixa,
by way of san sebastian, where they said
'yanque, you better watch what you're saying, unless you're sayin'
it in basque or in catalan!"
so all the way east to novi-sad,
where narry a bridge was to be seen,
but mother russia, she laid her pontoons on down,
so i crossed over, if you know what i mean...
then on the road to damascus, yes,
the scales, they fell from my eyes,
and the simplest lesson i learned at the mount of olices: everybody lies.
and the french foreign legion
you know they did their best - but i never beli