On a morning from a Bogart movie. In a country where they turn back time. You go strolling through the crowd like Peter Lorre. Contemplating a crime. She comes out of the sun in a silk dress. running like a watercolour in the rain. Don't bother asking for explanations. She'll just tell you that she came. In the year of the cat. . . She doesn't give you time for questions. As she locks up your arm in hers. And you follow. 'till your sense of which direction. Completely disappears. By the blue tiled walls. near the market stalls. There's a hidden door she leads you to. These days she says. I feel my life Just like a river running thru. The year of the cat. Well she looks at you so cooly. And her eyes shine like the moon in the sea. She comes in incense and patchouli. So you take her to find what's waiting inside. The year of the cat. Well morning comes and you're still with her. And the bus and the tourists are gone. And you've thrown away the choice. and lost your ticket. So you have to stay on. But the drum-beat strains of the night remain. In the rhythm of the new-born day. You know sometime you're bound to leave her. But for now you're going to stay. In the year of the cat. . . . .