Confessions for the Preacher Kind: Lyrics.

Touch the sky with a finger and your eye,
Follow the horizon with the back of your hand,
And when you finally meet the sunlight,
You might just understand
That this dog is mad, but she don’t bite no God damn man.

And if you always ask for the truth, don’t be surprised, mister preacher,
That you don’t always get a lie,
Don’t be surprised, Mister Preacher,
Don’t be surprised

The skies running out of miles and your feet are a-tiring,
Your eyes are a-hurting and fate is still a-hurtling free,
Some day soon you’re gonna hit the wire,
And then you might just comprehend
That when the body ends, your soul keeps rolling, rolling like the moon in water,
And there ain’t nothing deeper than that…

And if you always ask for the truth, don’t be surprised, mister preacher,
That you don’t always get a lie,
Don’t be surprised, Mister Preacher,
Hey, don’t be surprised

One day the sky’s gonna bend down and speak to you
She’s gonna tell you everything that she’s seen since the day the earth was serene
And when she does confess that she’s always been so blue
Only cos you haven’t been true,
Don’t be surprised mister preacher, hey don’t be surprised

And if you always ask for the truth, don’t be surprised, mister preacher,
That you don’t always get a lie,
Don’t be surprised, mister preacher,
Hey, don’t be surprised.

I’ve been looking at the sky for way too long,
And as my vision gets weaker she always seems so strong,
I know that I have done some wrong that I can’t quite remember,
I’m gonna find myself a hill and on atop that hill I’m gonna watch the pitch blue sky,
And if you ask me why, don’t be surprised, mister preacher if I don’t tell you no lie

And if you always ask for the truth, don’t be surprised, mister preacher,
That you don’t always get a lie,
Don’t be surprised, Mister Preacher,
Hey, don’t be surprised.

Ah bon. If you’ve reached this point then I can share the story behind this wee song – or rather, the lyrics to a song. A few years ago, I was approached by a folk singer and he asked me to write him a song. So, I sat down and listened to him, his words and his music and I was inspired to pen this. This wasn’t my first stab at the craft of song-writing. When I was living in France in the 1990s, I met a Scottish chap in Bordeaux called Graeme (we’re still in touch!) and we got to chatting about poetry and lyrics and one hot French afternoon we hit a rich seam of inspiration and we must have, between us, shot out a baker’s dozen of songs in the space of a day. C’etait incroyable. In English, bien sur. So, when I was asked after many years of drought (the song type) to rustle something up, it was like dusting off an old book and re-reading the past. That’s what good literature really is. An echo. A memory. And we may produce new creations, but ultimately, nothing new is truly wrought beneath the heavens. And that’s all right.

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