Prospects

                                  A train ride to Tuesday 

A platform far away

Scarlet shades of evening

Move clouds of grey



Awaking arriving

The dirty station where

He passes crowds of people

Who don't see him there



Here's a desert island room

For a man who's cast away

Stranded in this home from home

From his family far away



Home, well this is it

This is it, is this my heart?

I miss you with all my heart

This is not, is this not my home?



One shoelace, cardboard suitcase

One passport from the Queen

One room for a light bulb

Where no one's been



Sticks and stones, my old bones

Not like 1954

Then they liked me fine

But not anymore



This empty room

Where he's marooned

With nothing left to say

But in the dark 

He thinks of home far away



Home, well this is it

This is it, is this my heart?

I miss you with all my heart

This is not, is this not my home?



I feel cold getting old

More than the climate's change

Stranded on this island

The rate of exchange



Here's a desert island room

For a man who's cast-away

Today he will not be at work

There is no work anyway



How is it when you feel it?

Do you wonder what gets you down?

You're looking in the windows

When you walk this town