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Prospects - Lyrics


A train ride to Tuesday
A platform far away
Scarlet shades of evening
Move clouds of grey

Awaking, arriving
The dirty station where
He passes crowds of people
Who don't see him there

Here's a desert island room
For a man who's cast away
Stranded in this home from home
From his family far away

Home this is it
This is it
Is this my heart?
I miss you with all my heart
This is not
Is this not?
My home?

One shoelace, cardboard suitcase
One passport from the Queen
One room for a lightbulb
Where no-one's been

Sticks and stones
My old bones
Not like 1954
Then they liked me fine, but not any more

This empty room, where he's marooned
With nothing left to say
But in the dark he
Thinks of home far away

Instrumental

Home this is it
This is it
Is this my heart?
I miss you with all my heart
This is not
Is this not?
My home?

I feel cold getting old
More than the climate's changed
Stranded on this island
The rate of exchange

Here's a desert island room
For a man who's cast-away
Today he will not be at work
There is no work anyway

How is it when you feel it
Do you wonder what gets you down
You're looking in the windows
When you walk this town