The trees were a particular shade of green,
My boat was painted white
I was a sailor by birth,
A sailor by right.
Your chapter was covered in dust
beside Clapton's disk and Whiskey from the last decade
Go out and preach freedom to poor men with riches
And cross the river for me.
For if you won't, my boat would be stupid
And the river a waste
Some swift sailing turned into
A wild goose chase
My boat would be without oars and
the pole star wouldn't be of much use
For My direction is pointless,
but it leads to you.