Hope everybody's ringing on their own bell, this fine morning
Hope everyone's connected to that long distance phone
Old man, he's a mountain
Old man, he's an island
Old man, he's awaking - says
I'm going to call, call all my children home
Hope everybody's dancing to their own drum this fine morning
the beat of distant Africa or a Polish factory town
Old man, he's calling for his supper
He's calling for his whisky
Calling for his sons and daughters, yeah
calling, calling all his children round
Sharp ears are tuned in to the drones and chanters warming
Mist blowing round some headland, somewhere in your memory
Everyone is from somewhere
even if you've never been there
So take a minute to remember the part of you
that might be the old man calling me
How many wars you fighting out there, this winter's morning?
Maybe it's always time for another Christmas song
Old man he's asleep now
Got appointments to keep now
Dreaming of his sons and daughters and proving
proving that the blood is strong
A strong comment here is specific: the phrase you keep hearing, the mood you come back for, or the reason this song stays in rotation.
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