Hail in the ditches, ice on the tyres,
We gotta find another road out of here,
This way there's nothing but weeds and briars,
We're tangled up in a past we cannot clear,

Can't see nothing but dusty trees,
All around me, nothing but dusty trees.

There's no new crop in the far field,
There's no more walking through the harvest sheaves,
Our river's dead, nothing left to give,
A sunken barge is breaking up in the reeds,

Above the oily reeds,nothing but dusty trees,
All around me nothing but dusty trees.

Blood on your finger, a hook in your heart,
When you leave here you'll never look back,
Beacause you've lost your compass, lost the path
And the maps you bought are falling apart.

When the sun goes down you can feel the dark,
Pouring down through these dusty trees.


A blues song sort of. Kind of based on the mapmaking artwork of a of a odd English painter called Simon Lewty.