Morning After
You dance like you're drunk but you sing like you're sober,
You pulled the last pint when the party was over,
When you're alone and you lie in your bed.
The rain on the roof is the dance of the dead.
The boys from the Bronx and Belturbet, Bundoran,
Brighton and Bray, they're all shouting and brawling
They're routing reflection, a kiss or a sigh,
To forget or recall the old days long gone by.
And it's up in the morning, and after the evening,
The wordless goodbye and the silently leaving,
You turned on your side, and the dream in the bed,
Was a far distant cry from the one in your head.
You pulled the last pint when the party was over,
When you're alone and you lie in your bed.
The rain on the roof is the dance of the dead.
The boys from the Bronx and Belturbet, Bundoran,
Brighton and Bray, they're all shouting and brawling
They're routing reflection, a kiss or a sigh,
To forget or recall the old days long gone by.
And it's up in the morning, and after the evening,
The wordless goodbye and the silently leaving,
You turned on your side, and the dream in the bed,
Was a far distant cry from the one in your head.