Late November - Fotheringay

The wine it was drunk, the ship it was sunk

The shot it was dead, all the sorrows were drowned

The birds they were clouds, the brides and the shrouds

And as we drew south the mist it came down

The wooded ravine to the wandering stream

The serpent he moved, but no-one would say

The depths of the waters, the bridge which distraught us

And brought to me thoughts of the ill-fated day

The temples were filled with the strangest of creatures

One played it by ear on the banks of the sea

That one was found but the others they went under

Oh the tears which are shed, they won’t come from me

The methods of madness, the pathos and the sadness

God help you all, the insane and wise

The black and the white, the darkness of the night

I see only smoke from the chimneys arise

The pilot he flew all across the sky and woke me

He flew solo on the mercury sea

The dream it came back, all about the tall brown people

The sacred young herd on the phosphorus sand