Moon Inside. John Buckley McQuaid


There’s a waitress full of cookies
And a keeper of this café
Who’s arranging leather books
Beneath the bar
There’s a baby with his mother 
And he’s screaming bloody murder
Till she feeds him, then it’s baby 
Au revoir

Now it’s nine o’clock in Europe
Just an hour ahead of Greenwich
And we wonder what will happen
When they leave
There’s no telling if tomorrow
Will be permanently damaged
But we’re certain there’ll be lights
On Christmas Eve

Well, we’re scared to death of boredom
And we ask ourselves the question
Will we make it to the end 
Of ’Seventeen?
It’s so hard to tell the difference
From the rightist  to the leftist
With no room for anybody
In between

Mister Hurricane’s been raging
And the Net has gone ballistic
All about the size and shape
Of someone’s shoe
There are windmills in the ocean
There are ships on the horizon
While the moon inside our hearts
Is turning blue

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