We take them for bandits and
not
Comancheros,
but who knows the
truth of them,
who's there when night falls
to pick up the pieces?

Hand out and hang out with
the drop outs and
layabouts
and tell me what's wrong
with the picture you're in.

I've been there in the round square
when the world looks lopsided
and topsy turvy becomes the
new inn,
where I've dropped in for a
quick one and stayed there 'til
the bell rung
and crawled through the streets to
get home.

And home is where a part of me
sees the other side which
is a blasphemy
and God help the traders
who are struggling to live.

If I give it's for love and not
for some great reward from
a God up above,
but
I suspect
that they may be the same.