No Love To Be Made Here Now

I’m a drunkard, I’m a loser, a talker, I’m a dreamer with conquered gray eyes.
I’m a young man who sweats out the DT’s, there’s no love to be made here now.
I had a girl with no eyes but for Paris and a man with with an antique bassoon.
And while she pulls at my heart strings for the lack of fresh blood,
there’s no love to be made here now.
Last call, drink up, go home fools, blinded by liquor and fear of an old life
with no love, no one to hold you and tell you this love was triumphant and pure.
Well, she walks with the legs of a dancer, where its forever ten minutes to two.
At last call, she swoons to an old rain dog tune, there’ll be love to be made
here now.
So I will lie here awake in my bed, until the children have all gone to play,
then for two precious hours I will dream of a world where there’s love to be
made here now.
There’s love to be made here now.
What of the girl in the painting, where did her dear heart go.
Off in the hills with her fear and her wonder.
There’s no love to be made here now.
Where is the boy in the plate glass, where did his body go.
He gave it away to a north country harlot, there’s no love to be made here now.
There’s no love to be made here now