The Immigrant

You may dream of a land, of a far-distant land

Where the clouds drift above,

White over green grass and clover

Do the songs still go on are the races now won

By fellows you used to win over

Do they still recall those days long ago

Are their images those the windows of life still adorning

Do they feel that ache that you can never shake

That wakes with you still in the morning

You may drink when you're dry

You may laugh till you cry

And the tears from your eyes keep on falling

For lethe it runs slow, and never may you know

Respite from your heart still recalling

If anger glows slow there's a fuse in a jug

A jug filled with punch

A jug filled with punch in the evening

There's the world in your hand, who can ever understand

Why the jar or two leaves you grieving

Do you torture yourself, is it not you at all,

Is it others' fault instead you can't take a breath without sighing

There's no logic that you know, that can ever make it so

But twenty pints or so stops you dying

Now you're old, vast and gray

And living in the burbs,

In the bunkers of town,

Archie bunkered down in the trenches

You've established your redoubt,

Immigrants keep out

Nostalgia and cops your defenses