Peter Hammill German Overalls
Manheim; rainy Saturday with no money nor friend, only Tequila can end the boredom. Try to reach London for a pocket of hope; we're children, we grope in the dark. Hugh spends his last Mark on coffee and cheese... I feel just like a refugee... Rathaus-keepers and traffic police, middle-aged maids with rotting teeth industrial magazines and old Sunday Times; reading material/bleeding lines. What are we doing here? Memorial manace, eager for revenge, has begun to bend our minds. Shower-curtain imperative in the presence of acid; now, feeling placid is death. I try to hold my breath as the P.A. comes down... here we all are in Ktown! The Big Wheel never fails to grind around; it drags me up/drags me down Seven sentenses wonder 'Can this be real, or am I become a performing seal?' Why are we dying here? I walk the streets alone, try to find a sign of love, I've crushed the plaster-bone in the freaky clubs, I have bit the fruit but all I live for is to play and I'm tired of the nights and the days of airports, taxis and motorway showers, grooping for a key in the afterhours. David takes to travelling in the van, He knows that we all can understand; we're at the mercy of the Kosmos Tour, making a pilgrimage to the German Lourdes... but we're still crippled here. Cathedrals spiral skywards, I think I'm getting vertigo, I think I don't know what is real. On a more sudden spotlight, one more madness is over... I must not show a sign of fear. Words echo round my ears, I think I'm going to laugh... think I'll just go and take a bath, Guess I'll wash my clothes, don't you know I'll grow to go and make my name, maybe a servant in the Fame game; stake my sane and rest my life on the line... Now lay me asunder and rend my mind; at the fall of the curtain let this be my ghost...
