Woozy With Cider

21 May 2013
11:50 PM
Manila

M.–

This is one of my favourite songs.

Woozy With Cider
James Yorkston
(Songwriters: Stuart Ross, James Patrick Yorkstone Wright)

Watching the park quieten from the hotel window
I hear you softly sleep, amongst the cars and saluting songbirds
For a city whose size had scared me for years
Right now it’s a feeble evening row
Not un-similar to a beach evening ending

On the table to my left there’s a magazine with a picture of dead monkey
Making a mockery of what I’d call art
But what would I know about the scene in the city
That has swallowed up friends, lovers and family
Just give me a village the size of a teacup

You’re happier here spread out with your eyes closed
I feel I should order a drink in celebration to welcome the summer
Whose first day is ending
Should you wake you’d catch me of course
And ask me the wisdom of drinking once more

I cast me mind back to yesterday’s wedding
Where we got drunk and fell over
I did my best to be polite to a family I’d never met
But on numerous occasions, I guess, I could have tried harder

Of course by the end of the night
I was a best friend with everyone and everyone’s wife
But right now I couldn’t remember their names
No matter how hard I try

As the sun glares through the hotel window
I wonder of our future and where it will lead to
I wonder if you’ll be laying there
10 years, 20 years, 30 years down the line

I’ll still be staring out at the street confused about love and life
It’ll be interesting to see if anyone ever bought those songs of mine
If anyone heard those words that I never got quite right

I think I can be honest in presuming
The world is not exactly going to be leaping out its bed
To make me rich, using my songs in adverts
Selling oranges or lemons

Who knows I may end up owning the whole street
Or more likely sleeping under tree in the park opposite
Would the runners keep me awake
Or would I keep them asleep?

I’d hope I have the sense to move back home
As lovely as today is
I’d imagine the winter would be rather cold

I’d been told for years that the devil had the best tunes
And that the devil lived down here
Whereas us country folk weren’t worth the salt from the road

Expat magazine editors who choose to lose their temper
On the easily persuaded northern town dwellers
And sure enough 99 percent of the people I meet
Have scant regard for entertaining me

It seems I’m too old or too slow or too quiet and just wrong
And I’m glad
In their cocaine fuelled electronic cabarets
I’ll be the man at the bar drinking overpriced whiskey
From a barmaid who’s too good to catch my eye

She only works here two nights a week
The rest of the time she’s a singer in a rock and roll band
I bet she’d change her tune
If I told her my album had peaked at number 172

And that I also had friends who worked in bars
And that didn’t define who they are
Though it certainly helps their capacity to drink

But I’ve strayed off the subject
Now I’ll be leaning over and waking you up
And you’ll squint at me through the cracks between your eyelids

Woozy with cider
As if you’re asking just exactly where we are
And exactly what I wanted
And I’ll be happy because
We won’t be taking anything too seriously

Goodnight,
T.

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