(C) Eclectic Guitar - Tom Kater

Once upon a time when the only border
That you knew was the one that you crossed in the summer
In the car on the way to see your auntie and your uncle and your cousins
In their big white house by the seaside
You thought life was fine it was only right
And the world was fair and the goodies wore white
Romance was a windy walk in the night
You never thought you could come to write about your hometown

It's all so far and gone in a past that lingers on in your middle-aged mind
Though you know that you went away
But you find yourself in a smoky haze
You're a drunk with a pencil as a mandolin plays
So you write a song about a smoky town where the clouds pile up
And the rain falls down on the pavement

The 13 bus on a wet windy Saturday
At 9 o’clock at night was only vaguely amusing
When the drunk men staggered from the pub along the road
With their roll-ups and their screw tops
And a pressing need to know that you were all right
In the heavy air when the sky turned brown
You could catch the smell from the east of town of the charcoal works
Where the bones burned slowly down in the flameless fires of no ambition

It's all so far and gone in a past that lingers on in your middle-aged mind
Though you know that you went away
But you find yourself in a smoky haze
You're a drunk with a pencil as a mandolin plays
So you write a song about a smoky town where the clouds pile up
And the rain falls down on the pavement

The song of the Clyde ignored the built-up hill
To the south of the sparkling water
Of the river as it mixed with oil and the diesel
From the tugs and the ships in Victoria Harbour floating rainbows
You sat and watched the tip of your fishing rod
As you tried for a flounder or a slack-bellied cod
And at night Grieve Road reflected the lights
As the Whinhill overlooked from fantastical heights of indifference

It's all so far and gone in a past that lingers on in your middle-aged mind
Though you know that you went away
But you find yourself in a smoky haze
You're a drunk with a pencil as a mandolin plays
So you write a song about a smoky town where the clouds pile up
And the rain falls down on the pavement