Tall Black Horse

This is not Belfast, it's not Newry Town.

These aren't the tall dark Mournes tumbline down.

This is not here, this is not there.

And I cannot focus on a place anywhere.

 I'm miles from nowhere, too long in the wasteland.

And the paranoia dreams are slipping like sand.

There's rain on my face, there's blood on the ground.

And that wild wind is screaming like a hellhound.

Give me my cane, give me my gun.

Give me that tall black horse, he's ready to run. He's ready to run.

Stranger than truth, stronger than fear.

They play the "Paranoia Bules" baby round here.

Saw you lying in the alley, with your poor eyes gone.

Scratching in the gravel for a way to keep moving on.

Don't give me this pain, I've suffered enough.

Your paranoia blues are getting too tough.

You could have been mine, I could have been yours.

 But we threw it all away, like two cheap natural whores.

Give me my cane, give me my gun.

Give me that tall black horse, he's ready to run. He's ready to run.

I've got your number, I might give you a call.

I've got some pictures from another time on my wall.

So pick up your suitcase, do it careful and slow.

Take one last long look, before you go.