To the mourning star of sorrow ,
inside the curtains drawn inside ,
a herse pulls up to weeping the young mans life now in a casket lay ,
With cobwebs to cover his head ,
for now he is dead .

Once bright lights  of stardom with Limosens await ,
starlights fame ,
a spotlight that one day grew dim .For now  death and Christ await ..,
For to much liquor and money ,
to many ladies and ***** ,
and the gypsy he sang captivated my love of solitude .

A ghost book from my grans book case ,
tales of 20,000 leagues under the sea ,
the skull ,
It’s pages I turned what fantasy in this old book I learned .
and so to the gypsy with grinding tale of whips and shacks ,
and a poor boys love for that gypsy girl .

Even now unto this day they play this song it won’t go away ,
In Shepherd’s Bush s music halls to two thousand expecting hordes ,
that song lives ever on .

So what is love only that it must be perused ,
or our lives become catacombs,
and our hearts encased in tombs . .
Our 20,000. Leagues we fall ,
deeper and deeper where there is no love at all ,
just a skull on a shelf to watch it all .
Then save your love for pettles and flowers for above all these things
Gods love towers ,
Wrapped up in Mary’s arms ,
Lies Gods gift of love to man ,
a spralling baby who’s arms stretched out in love ,
this infant child covered in blood it cries .
Like every other in Linon cloth lay ,
that stars and Kings adore .