The Promised Land
(apologies to Bruce Springsteen)
We’ve all felt like that, itching for something to start,
listening to a dream-song on the radio before a working day,
wanting to explode, tear the whole damn world apart
drive all night down a howling freeway,
chasing the mirage until it settles like snow.
They believed in a promised land: the white U
on the mountains; the grey temple in the town.
One man found the Word, took charge
of its translation in New York, then passed it on
to many. It made sense, down in the valley.
It made sense. Well, kind of, in the valley
where the skinny dogs yowled; where they’d get
up in the morning and go to work each day.
Did it make them blind? Did their blood run cold?
Travelling all night, we never found the Word.
We made our own up. Listened to the dream-
songs, let them tear our world apart,
chased the mirage through the park, the pub,
the office, let it settle, then walked through it,
kept it yowling like a siren, made it start.