Trying To Get To St. Nazaire

I ask myself why is that carraige leaving at precisely the same time

As my next connection's due

I'm on the wrong side of the tracks; it's too much of a coincidence

Because it's leaving right on cue

I know the consequences if i've blown one more arrival

There won't be a welcoming party there,

I'm in st nicolas-de-redon, trying to get to st nazaire.

I make some enquiries in the best french that i can muster

Mais elle dit "je ne comprend pas"

I guess she smells the alcohol, thinks i'm english, shuts the hatch

C'est le dimanche, eh bah.

She disappears but i think i understand enough to catch the phrase

Je reviens a toute a l'heure,

In st. nicolas-de-redon, trying to get to st. nazaire.

Have you ever spent a sunday afternoon in france, in a station

That's barely made it onto the map

I can tell you that you'll have time enough to write the novel

Write the second, and the third and do the first redraft

The natives disappear into the ether, with their grannies and their children

For an afternoons' fruit-de mer.

In st. nicolas-de-redon, trying to get to st. nazaire.

I'm two hours into a four-hour wait, half my stash is gone, there's

A crackling on the gravel and a saint appears

She reads the 'ferme'sign, turns around to look at me, with a smile

That says she's not as wet as me around the ears

She's catherine from scandinavia, and she's on her way to see an irish guy in

Concert, elle dit "ce'st en plein air",

I tell her i'm her man, and i'm trying to get to st. nazaire.

It's rarely that i get drunk enough to miss the boat or as in this case

Miss the second train, but i'm about to do just that

I've sunken into the eyes of catherine, her broken english and everything

Beneath her brown felt hat

I ask her to be my manager, my mistress, tell her not to worry

Swear hand on heart that i'll get her there

In st nicolas de redon, trying to get to st. nazaire.

There's a moment when you realise, that something that once was

Within your grasp has suddenly passed you by

And in alcohol, it's compounded by the fact that you're reduced to

Working with the aid of just one good eye

I take my guitar from my case try to break a leg or two

While the natives look elsewhere

In st. nicholas-de-redon, trying to get to st nazaire.

She gets me to the gig somehow, what a manager, what a stroke

But i'm not the only one that's having one

Il's sont fou les irlandais, quest que on fait, there's consternation

So they put me in a caravan

When i wake up i realise that my body has arrived but my mind is

Still way back there

In st.nicholas-de-redon, trying to get to st. nazaire.

I'll spare you the rest of the gory details, but t'was catherine who took the

Bullets, while i got out alive

We had a relationship of sorts; we shared sardines from a can, some

Broken bread, but it failed to thrive

Today i check the map just to see how many miles it is from a semblance of hope to blank despair

It's forty miles, maybe less,

From st nicholas-de-redon,

But it might as well be a million when you're in your cups

And you're trying to get to st. nazaire.