Gill

Lyrics

The Friday bell is ringing in the yard.
The door swings wide, the winter follows in.
Fifty coats of frozen heavy wool,
Thawing out the factory and the skin.
I pull the taps, I let the bitter run,
The room gets loud, the faces turn to chalk.
But you sit at the corner of the wood,
With just enough to make a shadow talk.

It’s a small allowance for a heavy debt,
A little warmth against the freezing damp.
I pour it level to the pewter rim,
Right up to the royal copper stamp.
It’s exactly what I owe you, nothing more.
But it’s exactly what you need to make the door.

Some men need a barrel just to drown.
Some men need a river for their head.
But my arm feels the balance in the dark,
The liquid stopping right before the edge.
There's a scratch mark on the handle from a ring,
Left by some ghost who drank here in the war.
The Crown decrees I cannot tip it twice,
The Crown says we are equal on this floor.

It’s a small allowance for a heavy debt,
A little warmth against the freezing damp.
I pour it level to the pewter rim,
Right up to the royal copper stamp.
It’s exactly what I owe you, nothing more.
But it’s exactly what you need to make the door.

They standardized the mercy in a cup.
They drew a boundary line around the hurt.
You take it in one swallow, close your eyes,
And lift your heavy boots right off the dirt.

The tavern's shouting, singing for the band.
You nod to me and push the empty glass away.
The measure settles back upon the shelf,
A perfect, bounded piece of yesterday.
I wipe the mahogany clean.
And wait for you to need it.
Again.