I went out walking the other day. The wind hung wet around my neck. My head it rung with screams and groans. From the night I spent amongst her bones. I passed beside the mission house. Where that mad old buzzard the reverend. Shrieked and flapped about life after your dead. Well I thought about my friend Michel. How they rolled him in linoleum. And shot him in the neck. A bloody halo like a think-bubble. Circling his head. And I bellowed at the firmament. Looks like the rains are hear to stay. And the rain pissed down upon me. And washed me all away. Saying. Papa won't leave you Henry. Papa won't leave you Boy. Papa won't leave you Henry. Papa won't leave you Boy. Well the road is long. And the road is hard. And many fall by the side. But Papa won't leave you Henry. So there ain't no need to cry. And I went on down the road. He went on down the road. And I went on down the road. He went on down the road. Well the moon it looked exhausted. Like something you should pity. Spent an age-spotted. Above the sizzling wires of the city. Well it reminded me of her face. Her bleached and hungry eyes. Her hair was like a curtain. Falling open with the laughter. And closing with the lies. But the ghost of her still lingers on. Though she's passed through me. And is gone. The slum dogs they are barking. And the rain children on the streets. And the tears that we will weep today. Will all be washed away. By the tears that we will weep again tomorrow. Papa won't leave you Henry. Papa won't leave you Boy. Papa won't leave you Henry. Papa won't leave you Boy. For the road is long. And the road is hard. And many fall by the side. But Papa.