What do you call a man who refuses to write about love?
Do you call him brave?
Or do you call him scared of what his love might think
when she sees his heart split and slit?
What do you call a man who refuses to write about love?
They call him a madman, a lyricist of
Doom.
Lie, lie, lie me down my sweet.
Drag me through the torrid crowds of Stephen’s Street.
Where Luke Kelly watches over his musical tribe and
the wandering beggar wonders if he’s still alive...?
I ask the magical musician where he keeps his harp,
He flicks me a bronze coin.
The spirit of success, a symbol of loneliness, in this waning world where the Dublin bards
Cry.
Love is a man’s hope.
His means to cope,
in this ever-dissonant chime of Life. It rings loud and whirls into an ever-lasting abyss where darkness consumes and presumes Your life is not worth the salt on the rocks by docks of Sir Rogerson’s Quay.
And I ask you…
What do you call a man who refuses to write about love?
I call him a madman, a lyricist of
Doom.
What do you
Call the madman
whose vision’s blurred by perfect poetry?
I call him the Balladeer.
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