You may dream of a land, of a far-distant land 

Where the clouds drift above, 

White over green grass and clover 

Do the songs still go on are the races now won 

By fellows you used to win over 

Do they still recall those days long ago 

Are their images those the windows of life still adorning 

Do they feel that ache that you can never shake 

That wakes with you still in the morning 



You may drink when you're dry 

You may laugh till you cry 

And the tears from your eyes keep on falling 

For lethe it runs slow, and never may you know 

Respite from your heart still recalling 



If anger glows slow there's a fuse in a jug 

A jug filled with punch 

A jug filled with punch in the evening 

There's the world in your hand, who can ever understand 

Why the jar or two leaves you grieving 

Do you torture yourself, is it not you at all, 

Is it others' fault instead you can't take a breath without sighing 

There's no logic that you know, that can ever make it so 

But twenty pints or so stops you dying 



Now you're old, vast and gray 

And living in the ‘burbs, 

In the bunkers of town, 

Archie bunkered down in the trenches 

You've established your redoubt, 

Immigrants keep out 

Nostalgia and cops your defenses