Early years
were a shroud man
Only a grey cloud
Shot in the dark
Hanging out
with your dad
His plans for revenge
In some hick-town
caravan park
Never keep
a good one down
Early years
Were a dreadnought
Waiting to tread board
And my work
down the pan
Hanging round
By the back door
One foot in
the stage door
Some disaffected
fly-by man
Got wired by a cable
Got wild on a table
Scared the shit out of me
All for the free state
The snow and
the greasepaint
I left the singing family