All the homes on the globe are

like the television in your

eyes. A cross guarding your

heart the living years a

sacrifice. A shiver at the door

in the night, clouds cross a

black moonlight. Rushing on down

to the sound of a turning world.

There's a south by sou'westerly

force eight coming in strong.

Across the continental shelf

from the cold grey Malin beyond.

The need to keep control. The

need to stand alone at the edge

of the world. The adrenalin

infrastructure bringing on it's

troubles some more. All the laws

of the jungle stranded on your

latest shore. But the waves hold

the healer force. The years

disappear like a ghost.

Somewhere out of the sight of

the night and the light of day.

Now civilisation groans and the

news reel cries. Like a drowning

man his life in front of his

eyes. But the need to keep

control. The need to bare the

soul at the edge of the world.

And the man from St. Kilda went

over the cliff on a winters day.

At the edge of the world. At the

edge of the world.