early years
were a shroud man
only a grey cloud
shot in the dark
hanging out
with your dad
his plans for revenge
in some hick-town
caravan park
never keep
a good one down
early years
were a dreadnought
waiting to tread board
and my work
down the pan
hanging round
by the back door
one foot in
the stage door
some disaffected
fly-by man

got wired by a cable
got wild on a table
scared the shit out of me
all for the free state
the snow and
the greasepaint
i left the singing family