In my dream burn yellow lights,
And I spill my sorrow:
"Do not go - please, stay the night!
Wait! Fresh for the morrow!"

But the morning seems all wrong,
No joy - more’s the pity -
Ugh - the hair of the dog,
Of the dog that bit you!

 
 
 
 

In the bars, red, bloodshot eyes,
All that sparkling poison -
Clowns’ and beggars’ paradise
And my gilded prison.

In the church, stench, Evensong,
Even gold looks shabby...
No, the church, it feels all wrong,
Not the way it should be!

In a hurry, I climb up,
Why? I do not know.
There’s an alder-tree on top,
A cherry-tree below.

Wish there was plush on the slope -
It would look less scrubby.
There is not a bloody hope,
Nothing’s as it should be.

 
 
 
 

I keep searching high and low:
Oh my God, where are you?
By the roadside, bluebells grow,
And the road climbs higher.

All along the road, a wood
Full of witches, fellows.
At the end of that long road
Nothing but the gallows.

Horses dancing all along,
Smoothly dance the horses.
On the road it seems all wrong,
At the end, much worser.

Nothing’s holy anymore,
Neither drink nor prayer.
It’s all wrong, boys, by the Lord,
No, boys, it’s not fair...