Madman Growing up in post-war Britain we had two things; freedom to roam the countryside from an early age, and very little stuff to entertain or distract from the roaming. The most interesting and scariest draws in the woods were vagrants (hobos)passing through,or camping even in winter. We kept our distance as instructed, but their life stories were a good subject for a boy`s imagination.
Style is _BGRKWLZ.STY (Folk Rock in 3/4)
RealTracks in style: 1106:Bass, Acoustic, BluegrassWaltz Ev 140
RealTracks in song: 2214:Bouzouki, Rhythm SlowWaltz Ev 100
RealTracks in style: 863:Guitar, Electric, Rhythm PopRockWaltzPulsingA-B Ev 140
RealTracks in style: 866:Guitar, Electric, Rhythm PopRockWaltzSteadyA-B Ev 140
RealTracks in song: 1144:Fiddle, Background BluegrassWaltz Ev 140 (Outside)
RealTracks in song: 1815:Guitar, Acoustic, Fingerpicking CelticSlowWaltz Ev 110
RealDrums in style: RockModernWaltz^1-a:Snare, HiHat , b:Snare, Ride
Madman
in the last wild wood castle
past the freeway that buried this town
the man who once flew Spitfires
skins a rabbit by the sickle moon
far away as a constellation
city lights the unreachable shore
of a world that watched him falling
blood red sky nineteen forty four
as boys we tracked his shadow
his eye so raven bright
at our voices his body would tremble
like a deer in the headlights
and shouting at him from the turnstile
laughing madly all the way home
we stopped to see him waving
conducting his private storm
he`d fling his black hat
over the wheat field
into the flames see it tumble and spin
the madman`s soul
flies over the wheat field
like a raven with a broken wing
round the snares of his rag and bone outpost
harvest threshers thrum back and forth
cutting golden life in ripples
the cold steel of his unkind thoughts
but he remembers her name was Annie
when the wheat turns the colour of her hair
and he curses the ones who`d harm her
calls her name as a prayer
he flings his black hat
over the wheat field
into the flames see it tumble and spin
the madman`s soul
flies over the wheat field
like a raven with a broken wing
there`s an oak in the wild wood castle
after twenty years of siege
bears scars of the man who flew Spitfires
where the ravens wheel and grieve
among the rust and the rags and the ashes
there`s a name carved in the bone
of a mirror I held for a moment
for looking there turned my blood to stone
now I sing my black song
over the wheat field
into the flames hear it tumble and spin
for the madman`s soul
that flies over the wheat field
and for the raven with a broken wing
for the raven with a broken wing
© Robert Cordrey Feb.1995
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