I`ll make love to you in all good places under black mountains in open spaces. By deep brown rivers that slither darkly through far marches where the blue hare races.
Come with me to the Winged Isle --- northern father`s western child. Where the dance of ages is playing still through far marches of acres wild.
I`ll make love to you in narrow side streets with shuttered windows, crumbling chimneys.
Come with me to the weary town --- discos silent under tiles that slide from roof-tops, scatter softly on concrete marches of acres wild.
By red bricks pointed with cement fingers Flaking damply from sagging shoulders.
Come with me to the Winged Isle --- northern father`s western child. Where the dance of ages is playing still through far marches of acres wild.
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