The river itself feeds on souls

The suicides, the ones who let go of the controls

Like the woman whose beauty they couldn't replace

The morgue even made a plaster cast of her face

There's at least one a week, more women than men

For some reason or other, it changes by season

It sometimes has nightmares, which truly is frightening

When the sky becomes filled with bouquets of lightening

Raindrops seeping into the letter box while I'm sleeping

Makes it seem like those who wrote me were weeping

The river's emotional with waves made of mercury

Sometimes brutal, sometimes nurturing

It rocks me to sleep with oscillations of anguish

It whispers its secrets but in its own language

It leaves me to languish, it breaks all of my promises

It threatens my premises, it's my friend and my nemesis

My houseboat is well suited for finer affairs

I think, it just needs a few minor repairs

It's like a lawnchair chapel, to make an analogy

Moss at the waterline, skirted with algae

Held together with the help of nothing but trust

The chimney and water tank is covered with rust

Shutters cover windows, some of which are stained glass

All the way around the deck is a railing of plain brass

Unpolished and pretty, Norweigan design

From the front there's a clothes line reaching behind

To the back where the anchor and gang plank hang out

There's a chance you might see two or three pairs of pants waving in the wind

The inside is wooden, by every means reinforced, all around by heavy beams

Low ceilings and oil lamps, candles and incense

A great big bed that would be fit for a princess

Pot bellied stove, transistor radio

Roll top desk, this is the way to go

A person can dream here and write with impunity

The sunlight is proper, there is endless opportunity

The views are inspiring, bare and chameleon

Reflections and shadows play on the ceiling

Troubles are handled with propriety and no delay

All I have to do is pull the anchor up and float away