JETHRO TULL

1. Someday The Sun Won't Shine For You

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In the morning -- gonna get my things together.
Packing up and I'm leaving this place.
I don't believe you'll cry, there'll be a smile upon your face.

I didn't think how much you'd hurt me.
That's something that I laugh about.
Bring in the good times, baby.
And let the bad times out.

That old sun keeps on shining,
But someday it won't shine for you.
In the morning I'll be leaving.
I'll leave your mother too.

2. Living In The Past

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( instrumental )

3. Life Is A Long Song

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When you're falling awake and you take stock of the new day,
and you hear your voice croak as you choke on what you need to say,
well, don't you fret, don't you fear,
I will give you good cheer.

Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.

If you wait then your plate I will fill.

As the verses unfold and your soul suffers the long day,
and the twelve o'clock gloom spins the room,
you struggle on your way.
Well, don't you sigh, don't you cry,
lick the dust from your eye.

Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.

We will meet in the sweet light of dawn.

As the Baker Street train spills your pain all over your new dress,
and the symphony sounds underground put you under duress,
well don't you squeal as the heel grinds you under the wheel.

Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.

But the tune ends too soon for us all.

4. Under Wraps

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( instrumental )

5. Rocks On The Road

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Words get written. Words get twisted.
Old meanings move in the drift of time.
Lift the flickering torches. See gentle shadows change
the features of the faces cut in unmoving stone.
Bad mouth on a prayer day, hope no one's listening.
Roots down in the wet clay, branches glistening.

True disciples carrying that message
to colour just a little with their personal touch.
Home-spun fancy weavers and naked half-believers --
Crusades and creeds descend like fiery flakes of snow.
Bad mouth on a prayer day, hope no one's listening.
Roots down in the wet clay, branches glistening.

In wet and windy priest-holes. Grand in vast cathedrals.
High on lofty minarets or in the temples of doom.
I hope the old man's got his face on.
He'd better be some quick change artist.
Suffer little children to make their minds up soon.
Bad mouth on a prayer day, hope no one's listening.
Roots down in the wet clay, branches glistening.

6. Nursie

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Tip-toes in silence `round my bed
and quiets the raindrops overhead.
With her everlasting smile
She still my fever for a while.
Oh, nursie dear,
I'm glad you're here
to brush away my pain.

7. Too Old To Rock & Roll, Too Young To Die

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The old Rocker wore his hair too long,
wore his trouser cuffs too tight.
Unfashionable to the end --- drank his ale too light.
Death's head belt buckle --- yesterday's dreams ---
the transport caf' prophet of doom.
Ringing no change in his double-sewn seams
in his post-war-babe gloom.

Now he's too old to Rock'n'Roll but he's too young to die.

He once owned a Harley Davidson and a Triumph Bonneville.
Counted his friends in burned-out spark plugs
and prays that he always will.
But he's the last of the blue blood greaser boys
all of his mates are doing time:
married with three kids up by the ring road
sold their souls straight down the line.
And some of them own little sports cars
and meet at the tennis club do's.
For drinks on a Sunday --- work on Monday.
They've thrown away their blue suede shoes.

Now they're too old to Rock'n'Roll and they're too young to die.

So the old Rocker gets out his bike
to make a ton before he takes his leave.
Up on the A1 by Scotch Corner
just like it used to be.
And as he flies --- tears in his eyes ---
his wind-whipped words echo the final take
and he hits the trunk road doing around 120
with no room left to brake.

And he was too old to Rock'n'Roll but he was too young to die.
No, you're never too old to Rock'n'Roll if you're too young to die.

8. One White Duck

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There's a haze on the skyline, to wish me on my way.
And there's a note on the telephone --- some roses on a

tray.
And the motorway's stretching right out to us all,

as I pull on my old wings --- one white duck

on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?
I'll catch a ride on your violin --- strung upon your bow.
And I'll float on your melody --- sing your chorus soft

and low.
There's a picture-view postcard to say that I called.
You can see from the fireplace, one white duck

on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?

So fly away Peter and fly away Paul --- from the

finger-tip ledge of contentment.
The long restless rustle of high-heeled boots calls.
And I'm probably bound to deceive you after all.

Something must be wrong with me and my brain ---

if I'm so patently unrewarding.
But my dreams are for dreaming and best left that

way --- and my zero to your power of ten equals

nothing at all.

There's no double-lock defense; there's no chain on my door.
I'm available for consultation,
But remember your way in is also my way out, and

love's four-letter word is no compensation.

Well, I'm the Black Ace dog-handler: I'm a waiter on

skates --- so don't you jump to your foreskin conclusion.
Because I'm up to my deaf ears in cold breakfast trays ---

to be cleared before I can dine on your sweet Sunday

lunch confusion.

9. A New Day Yesterday

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My first and last time with you
and we had some fun.
wenT walking through the trees, yeah!
And then I kissed you once.
Oh I want to see you soon
but I wonder how.
It was a new day yesterday
but it's an old day now.

Spent a long time looking
for a game to play.
My luck should be so bad now
to turn out this way.
Oh I had to leave today
just when I thought I'd found you.
It was a new day yesterday
But it's an old day now.

10. John Barleycorn ( Traditional )

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There were three men, came out of the west,
Their fortunes for to try
And these three men made a solemn vow:
John Barleycorn must die!
Well, they've ploughed, they've sown, they've harrowed him in.
Threw clods upon his head.
Till these three men were satisfied.
John Barleycorn was dead.

They've let him lie for a long long time,
till the rains from heaven did fall.
And little sir John sprang up his head
And so amazed them all.
They let him lie till the midsummer's day,
Till he looked both pale and wan, oh,
Then little Sir John has grown a long long beard
And so became a man.

They have hired men with the scythes so sharp.
To cut him off at the knee,
They rolled and they tied him around the waist,
serving him most him barbarously.
They hired men with the sharp pitchforks
to prick him to the heart.
And the loader he has served him worse than that,
for he's bound him to the cart.

Well, they've wheeled him 'round and 'round the field,
till they came onto a barn.
And there they made their solemn oath,
concerning a Barleycorn.
They hired men with the crab tree sticks
to split him skin from bone, yeah,
but the miller he has served him worse than that
for he ground him between two stones.

Well there's beer all in the barrel
and brandy in the glass,
but little old sir John with his nut-brown bowl
proved the strongest man at last.
John Barleycorn, throw him up, throw him up!

Now the huntsman, he can't hunt the fox,
nor loudly blow his horn
And the tinker he can't mend his pots
Without John Barleycorn,
John Barleycorn, John Barleycorn,
Barleycorn, Barleycorn
John Barleycorn, John Barleycorn.

11. Look Into The Sun

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( instrumental )

12. Christmas Song HR>

Once in Royal David's City stood a lonely cattle shed,
where a mother held her baby.
You'd do well to remember the things He later said.
When you're stuffing yourselves at the Christmas parties,
you'll just laugh when I tell you to take a running jump.
You're missing the point I'm sure does not need making
that Christmas spirit is not what you drink.

So how can you laugh when your own mother's hungry,
and how can you smile when the reasons for smiling are wrong?
And if I just messed up your thoughtless pleasures,
remember, if you wish, this is just a Christmas song.

( Hey ! Santa ! Pass us that bottle, will you ? )

13. From A Dead Beat To An Old Greaser

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From a dead beat to an old greaser, here's thinking of you.
You won't remember the long nights;
coffee bars; black tights and white thighs
in shop windows where blonde assistants fully-fashioned a world made
of dummies (with no mummies or daddies to reject them).
When bombs were banned every Sunday and the Shadows played F.B.I.
And tired young sax-players sold their instruments of torture ---
sat in the station sharing wet dreams of Charlie Parker,
Jack Kerouac, Ren\'e Magritte, to name a few of the heroes
who were too wise for their own good --- left the young brood to
go on living without them.

Old queers with young faces --- who remember your name,
though you're a dead beat with tired feet;
two ends that don't meet.
To a dead beat from an old greaser.

Think you must have me all wrong.
I didn't care, friend. I wasn't there, friend,
If it's the price of pint that you need, ask me again.

14. This Is Not Love

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Winds howled. Rains spit down.
All these nights playing precious games.
Cheap hotel in some seaboard town
closed down for the winter and whispered names.
Puppy-dog waves on a big moon sea
snap our heels half-heartedly
and how come you know better than me
that this is not love.
No, this is not love.

Empty drugstore postcards freeze
sunburst images of summers gone.
Think I see us in these promenade days
before we learned October's song.
Out on the headland, one gale-whipped tree;
curious, head bent to see.
And how come you know better than me
that this is not love.

Down to the sad south, smokey plumes
mark that real world city home.
Broken spells and silent gloom
ooze from that concrete honeycomb.
Puppy-dog waves on a big moon sea
snapped our heels half-heartedly
and how come you know better than me
that this is not love.

15. Bouree

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( instrumental )

16. Pussy Willow

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( instrumental )

17. Locomotive Breath

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In the shuffling madess
of the locomotive breath,
runs the all-time loser,
headlong to his death.
He feels the piston scraping --
steam breaking on his brow --
old Charlie stole the handle and
the train won't stop going --
no way to slow down.
He sees his children jumping off
at the stations -- one by one.
His woman and his best friend --
in bed and having fun.
He's crawling down the corridor
on his hands and knees --
old Charlie stole the handle and
the train won't stop going --
no way to slow down.
He hears the silence howling --
catches angels as they fall.
And the all-time winner
has got him by the balls.
He picks up Gideons Bible --
open at page one --
old Charlie stole the handle and
the train won't stop going --
no way to slow down.

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