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From faded newsprint used to wrap a fish 
Inscrutably the muse selects your face
As I sit drinking famously in an Irish bar 
Five thousand miles and thirty years away 

With the usual ceremonial you were crowned one night 
King of the field where doctors nail the cows
To make of the cock's quill the rights of language
And the pricking heart a sword against the hours 

Let smirking scholars writhe in their favourite bondage 
And hold you plaintiff to the charge of art
Exhibit A: he falls on legendary lines 
Singing mother I don't want a pain here in my heart 

The judge in me sucks eggs and jerks the sacred meat 
But the boy in me still dreams in Milk Wood town 
Like two provincial bastards playing the galleries
I hold your photo to a mirror upside down 

And as bacon wafts through hungry streets, your ghost pervades
Just like an old ex-boxer aged twenty two 
Staged-up like Falstaff or the wild welsh Rimbaud
You'd laugh to see the monograms they make of you
Ah, Mr. Thomas let us ramble through the midnight fair 
Let us throw old bottles at the ferris wheel
Let us paint library on the library let us raid the moonlight 
Let us steal whatever we are supposed to steal 

Let us watch while the days grow daily more mundane 
That rough God go riding with his shears
Hack wide the belly of the swollen mountains 
And rip molten heroes forth from their furious tears 

Oh, Mr. Thomas, oh, Mr. Thomas, 
Let us steal whatever we're supposed to steal
Mr. Thomas, oh, Mr. Thomas,
Why don't we feel whatever we're supposed to feel 

Oh, Mr. Thomas, Mr. Thomas, 
Why don't we feel whatever we're supposed to feel 
Oh, Mr. Thomas let us ramble through the midnight
Let us throw bottles at the ferris wheel 
Let us paint library on the library let us raid the moonlight
Let us steal whatever we're supposed to steal

Видео-клип к песне For Mr. Thomas

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