As the jazz drifts out the bars of Castlebar
I walk the crowded streets.
The bagpipes wail behind me
Wrenching and quenching the soft ears of a few.
As I walk the crowded streets
There isn't a soul to be seen, just ghosts floating in the misty air,
Wrenching and quenching the soft ears of a few,
Pouring their flawed lives upon the alleys of Castlebar.
There isn't a soul to be seen, just ghosts floating in the misty air.
I'm not a ghost, I'm a soul. I don't float, I speak.
Pouring their flawed lives upon the alleys of Castlebar,
They float with rhythm unknown, because it isn't rhythm at all.
I'm not a ghost, I'm a soul. I don't float, I speak.
I live for the moment when the jazz dies, and the crowded streets cease to rhyme.
They float with rhythm unknown, because it isn't rhythm at all.
It's more like a tune, a constant humming that never ends.
The bagpipes wail behind me
As the jazz drifts out the bars of Castlebar.
A door open and the smoke piles out,
I hear the harp, the sweet lull and I know I'm there, I know I'm home.