Graybeard the Trench coat Prophet
He carelessly strays through the dangerous lane
I hear nothing but the static fuzz of his chalk white eyes wane
He meanders, unfazed, like oblivion but sane
Waxing a sermon to the hunting shift-working game
Along Queen st. Between York and Main
He staggers and mumbles, then swaggers and stumbles
He pouts, then stares, fixes glares through me then he shouts
He's a broken down rolls Royce
Through a buzz of swarming vehicles, echoes his voice
Like empty lost sea shells
He writhes like a worm on a sewer well
He's graybeard the trench coat prophet
He's the foreshadowing fool of ol' Hammer town
He's graybeard the trench coat prophet
He never can be run down
Nobody will knock him down
I hear nothing but the static fuzz of his chalk white eyes wane
He meanders, unfazed, like oblivion but sane
Waxing a sermon to the hunting shift-working game
Along Queen st. Between York and Main
He staggers and mumbles, then swaggers and stumbles
He pouts, then stares, fixes glares through me then he shouts
He's a broken down rolls Royce
Through a buzz of swarming vehicles, echoes his voice
Like empty lost sea shells
He writhes like a worm on a sewer well
He's graybeard the trench coat prophet
He's the foreshadowing fool of ol' Hammer town
He's graybeard the trench coat prophet
He never can be run down
Nobody will knock him down
He's hollering out like some poor ol’ sick fool
In the traffic at rush hour the message is tragic
Like wizardry, witchcraft, dark pantomime magic,
It's a dagger of the mind,
To be or not to be
We all drone on and pass it
He must've escaped from the mountain nut house
We say to our doubting, fearful, blanched, blank selves
While we anxiously spy through our rearview and steer
Toward each and every separately crammed wartime shithouse
While he disappears
He's graybeard the trench coat prophet
He's the fool who knows all in Hammer town
He's graybeard, the trench coat prophet
Nobody can knock him down
He never will be knocked down
Nobody will ever run him down!
Graybeard cries in the night
In the traffic at rush hour the message is tragic
Like wizardry, witchcraft, dark pantomime magic,
It's a dagger of the mind,
To be or not to be
We all drone on and pass it
He must've escaped from the mountain nut house
We say to our doubting, fearful, blanched, blank selves
While we anxiously spy through our rearview and steer
Toward each and every separately crammed wartime shithouse
While he disappears
He's graybeard the trench coat prophet
He's the fool who knows all in Hammer town
He's graybeard, the trench coat prophet
Nobody can knock him down
He never will be knocked down
Nobody will ever run him down!
Graybeard cries in the night
Graybeard roams in and then out of our lives
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