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Rick Wakeman
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1
With your mercury mouth in the missionary times,
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And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes,
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And your silver cross, and your voice like chimes,
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Oh, who among them do they think could bury you?
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With your pockets well protected at last,
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And your streetcar visions which you place on the grass,
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And your flesh like silk, and your face like glass,
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Who among them do they think could carry you?
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Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
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Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
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My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
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Should I leave them by your gate,
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Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
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With your sheets like metal and your belt like lace,
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And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace,
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And your basement clothes and your hollow face,
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Who among them can think he could outguess you?
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With your silhouette when the sunlight dims
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Into your eyes where the moonlight swims,
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And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns,
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Who among them would try to impress you?
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Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
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Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
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My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
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Should I leave them by your gate,
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Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
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The kings of Tyrus with their convict list
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Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss,
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And you wouldn't know it would happen like this,
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But who among them really wants just to kiss you?
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With your childhood flames on your midnight rug,
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And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs,
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And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs,
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Who among them do you think could resist you?
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Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
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Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
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My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
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Should I leave them by your gate,
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Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
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Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide
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To show you where the dead angels are that they used to hide.
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But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side?
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Oh, how could they ever mistake you?
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They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
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But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,
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And with the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
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How could they ever, ever persuade you?
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Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
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Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
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My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
51
Should I leave them by your gate,
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Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
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With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row,
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And your magazine-husband who one day just had to go,
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And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show,
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Who among them do you think would employ you?
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Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole
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With your holy medallion which your fingertips fold,
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And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,
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Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you
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Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
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Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
63
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
64
Should I leave them by your gate,
65
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
Rick Wakeman - The last Battle ( Wembley...
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