Savage night on a misty island. Lights wink out in the

canyon walls.

Two old boys in a stolen racer. Black rubber contrails in

the unwashed halls.

And all roads out of here, seem to lead right back to the

Rock Island.



I've gone back to Paris, London, and even riding on a

jumbo to Bombay.

The long haul back holds faint attraction, but the people

here know they're o.k.

See the girl following the red balloon: walking all alone

on her Rock Island.



Doesn't everyone have their own Rock Island? Their own little

patch of sand?

Where the slow waves crawl and your angels fall and you find

you can hardly stand.

And just as you're drowning, well, the tide goes down.

And you're back on your Rock Island.



Hey there girlie with the torn dress, shaking: who was it

touched you? Who was it ruined your day?

Whose footprint calling card? And what they want, stepping

on your beach anyway?

I'll be your life raft out of here, but you'd only drift right

back to your Rock Island.



Hey, boy with the personal stereo: nothing `tween the ears

but that hard rock sound.

Playing to your empty room, empty guitar tune, No use waiting

for that C.B.S. to come around.

`Cos all roads out of here, seem to lead right back to your

Rock Island.