For Mr. Thomas

Van Morrison

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From faded newsprint used to wrap a fish
As I sit drinking famously in an Irish bar

King of the field where doctors nail the cows
And the pricking heart a sword against the hours
Let smirking scholars writhe in their favourite bondage
Exhibit A: he falls on legendary lines

But the boy in me still dreams in Milk Wood town
I hold your photo to a mirror upside down
And as bacon wafts through hungry streets, your ghost pervades
Staged-up like Falstaff or the wild welsh Rimbaud
Ah, Mr. Thomas let us ramble through the midnight fair
Let us paint library on the library let us raid the moonlight

That rough God go riding with his shears
And rip molten heroes forth from their furious tears
Oh, Mr. Thomas, oh, Mr. Thomas,
Mr. Thomas, oh, Mr. Thomas,

Why don't we feel whatever we're supposed to feel
Let us throw bottles at the ferris wheel
Let us steal whatever we're supposed to steal

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