Early years

were a shroud man

Only a grey cloud

Shot in the dark

Hanging out

with your dad

His plans for revenge

In some hick-town

caravan park

Never keep

a good one down

Early years

Were a dreadnought

Waiting to tread board

And my work

down the pan

Hanging round

By the back door

One foot in

the stage door

Some disaffected

fly-by man

Got wired by a cable

Got wild on a table

Scared the shit out of me

All for the free state

The snow and

the greasepaint

I left the singing family