Letras
The boy is holding his mother's hand
In the seaside station
The streets are silent in the rain
Naked and dead in their small town pain
When the train pulls in a man alights
Lugging a suitcase, battered but bright
With labels from the Argentine
Pulls down his hat, flexes his knees
Swaggers up the platform, Bogart on ice
Winks at the boy, kisses his wife
For a moment they're lost in their ardour
The boy is suddenly jealous of his father
The young couple walk hand in hand up the town
The boy just keeps his head down
Past the furniture store
Owned by a comrade from the Spanish Civil War
Looks in the window, to his surprise
An abolition in maple catches his eye
A loyalist guitar from the siege of Madrid
He presses his nose up to the windowsill
His father says "Como estas, señor?"
The boy is entranced by your guitar
Here's a couple of quid down
You get the rest next Saturday
Life's like that, isn't it?
Back in the house his parents disappear
To the bedroom they go but all the boy can hear
Are the strings echoing off of the maple
The father shouts out "Hey son, soon you'll be able
To play me a tango, knock spots off the sound"
Then he grabs his wife, twirls her around
The boy watches in wonder as the couple cavort
Outside the rain and the thunder drown out
The chill of the devotion of Bell
While inside their small kitchen
The father and mother are sublimely going to hell
The boy is religious, says mass at the friary
Ah, he's got a crush on St. Anthony
Got a hot date with him when he gets to heaven
But it's still hard to get up at twenty to seven
In a care for his morning, slates hitting the streets
Exploding in smithereens all around him
He runs in fear past the deserted garden
Where a man who himself is soul ever after
Sentenced to roam in search of salvation