And here it comes all teeth and smiles
a nonchalant flip of the wrist, head tilted back
no recognition of others scars or hard miles
subtle turns to sweep the blood from your track
Colouring your hair and face to turn the tide
the show with no programme or half time
your toll must be paid with no place to hide
unknowingly it is the past for which you repine
When you knew who you were without any doubt
not lost in a false pond and behind repugnant paint
somehow you think your life is in pieces without grout
and maybe it’s true, you’ve never tried to be a saint
Anthracite 