After my work at the Mission

I’d drop into the bar close by for a drink

The name of the place was The John Lennon bar

This was no hippy trip it was more grunge and grit

The floor was concrete , easy to wash the blood away

After the guarenteed fight

It was an outsider pub with every oddball from the Gatwick and Hollywood

Grey street was a place made for angels

Junkie , nun, cheap rotgut sherry men , painted up hookers all walked the path together

Just like it should be

Up and down , some to the convent, some to the soup kitchen and others to the pub

You have to get closer than just stand at the edge of things

You have to lose yourself , let yourself be devoured as you plunge into that abyss

Its the only way if you survive it’s great if you don’t it’s still great

The great river is full of shit with angels and madmen

Trying to reach the further shore.