There's no mistake
I smell it's that time of year again I can taste the air clocs go back
railway track
something blocks
the line again and the train runs late for the first time peeble beach
we're
underneath a pier
just been painted red where I hear the news for the first time
and all the friends
lay down the flowers sit on the banks and drink for hours talk of the way
they saw him last
local boy in the
photograph today he'll always be twenty three yet the train runs on and
on past the place they
found his clothing