You ask me why these words are so sweet,
Although they were  unextraordinary,
Is it because of this bitter world,
Been bitter so long,
That we're accustomed to the taste?

Sit here on this rocky cliff precipice,
Listening to this American woman play with this French orchestra,
Directed by an Italian man,
Jamming out to scraps that were written by a Jewish man in '67,
Making such a beautiful sound wave that bowls me over in it's benediction,
Over and Over,
And Over again,
Carry me to sea and drown me again.

Laying here in our bed,
I've never felt more alone,
You once gave me comfort and love,
Now anger and scorn.

I long for songs I've never heard,
For places I've never known,
I long for people I've never met,
For events I'll never go.

I long for a 5 hour cut of "The Thin Red Line",
The red dust of a northwestern Australian road,
For a red streaked sunset at a burning man,
An applause from the crowd lauding my accomplishments.

Give me my peace,
That I had so few years ago,
Give me back my confidence,
Give me back my home.

I long for my place in the world,
I long for not feeling like the fool.

Oh how I wonder,
How Napoleon felt on that ship,
Seeing the coast of his beloved France recede into the distance,
Never to be seen again?

How did it feel,
When the Emperor stared out,
Upon the ocean and horizon
The salted spray that kissed St Helena,
Also kissing his brow?

In those last days,
Did he recall his beloved France?
Did he visit his men and subjects,
Did he see it in his mind?

In those final hours,
Did he hear the people chant,
Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité!
Did he hear his army sing Le Chant du Départ one final time?

Upon the arrival of that grande finale,
The final moment,
The End,
Did he think of François and Léon as much as Josephine?
Did he feel that laurel-wreath upon his head one last time?

Was he scared?

What madness,
What wonderful madness,
Thrusting through my soul with 3000 strings,
1000 voices,
250 drums.

Cruise me along,
On a bottle of whiskey,
Bobbing to the *****,
Swinging to the beat,
Floating on the tune.

Silence,
Cold, angry, suffocating,
It's all I get from you now,
When all I try to do is right by you.

Silent glares with silent words,
Silent in your judgmental world,
Blaming me for all your sins,
Expecting me to go along with it.

I'm the hand that feeds,
And all you do it bite, bite, bite,
Leaving me alone in my cold, dark nights,
Stabbing me with your angry gaze,
Expecting miracles when all the while you sing no praise.

You hold on long enough to give me hope,
Then rip out of my hands that metaphorical rope,
Leave me to fall into an endless abyss,
Silence,
Is all that hits.

Our Ghost tonight,
Sits with me,
******* down Parliaments,
And bearing the words of Crosby, Stills, and Nash,
Singing of a ghost all their own.

Hovering in the periphery,
A constant watcher,
Constant companion,
Constant 2nd,
Constantly hoping to be 1st.

Cuckolded in emotions,
Unknowingly,
Which makes it worst I suppose,
Being torn apart by unrequited feelings,
Unknown indifference.

A gossamer-thin whisp of a thing,
That ghost at the edge of the vision,
Ever present but unseen,
Speak to me,
You have only but to speak,
To be seen!

The track ends,
I'm brought back,
Our spectral friend is gone,
Sneaking out as CS&N cries,
Making me wonder where they went