If nothing else, love me for that.

There's a young man sitting somewhere at the end of Mercy Street

near where the church has fallen in disrepair

Like so many of us who live hard but love free

he belongs at places where you shouldn't go to pray 

at least according to the Deep Machine

written like a lullaby on crystal white sheets

but for all we know that's as far as it goes

. . . it's just another tabula rasa at the end of the road, you know.

There at the corner leaning his back against the wall 

just like he's done nothing else but look for that kind of place 

where he can be reasonably certain he won't fall

The doubt he carries with him is something borrowed

but even so he is wondering this sorrow will wait until tomorrow 

or if this is it, if this is where he falls

and doesn't get back up again

Standing at that lonely ledge someplace far beyond himself

he is still not without hope 

You see the pills he's swallowed

and the spirits he's had 

It's just enough for him to keep singing that broken-down blues

in that f*****g broken down way

only someone truly lost way 

can hope to play 

and still make it speak for something

even though you've got nothing to say

Up ahead there's a pale blue kite flying by

and he sees it out of the corner of his eye

He laughs in a faded sort of way 

reminiscent of lightning on the get-away

and ends the turnaround of his vintage comedown blues

by howlin out how at least it's a damn good goodbye

to see a kite break free of the mental slavery 

and fulfill the qoute 

.. in his own way.