My Philosophy

Well she walked thru the streets

Feeling part of the crowd

Though she knew at night she'd sleep alone

She used to say 'The universe will provide'

But that's one hell of a space to call home

And I still think of her on cold grey mornings

When I'm drinking in the Royal Exchange

Where old Irishmen who live in one room

And dream of horses on the range

[Chorus]

It's your life

You're making tracks

But I can't be there

If you change your mind

And come on back - come on back

Well I rubbеd my face as the day wore on

I walkеd thru back streets to the Blackman Bar

Thought about my dear old friend Noel

How he bought me here to say goodbye

That splendid man then left to die

And I cut my hand on and old old story

As I turned the page to see who'd died

I saw the salt pouring into the wounds

Of little boys who couldn't cry

[Chorus]

It's your life

You're making tracks

But I can't be there

If you change your mind

And come on back - come on back

There's a shoreline where old men work hard

They can't afford life's easy tears

They work from memory with their hands

Faces wet with routine fear

And it's a long way to the ocean floor

And the golden heart is sinking slow

Trumpets sounding underwater

Sound turns slowly in the salty flow

[Chorus]

It's your life

You're making tracks

But I can't be there

If you change your mind

And come on back - come on back

I spent a month alone in the underground

In Marylebone Station in London town

Two policemen stopped and asked if I was ok

I said 'I'm working on my philosophy'

And in April-time when the bluebells come

To country lanes that I have known

I see children swimming in an English river

In summer heat they splash and shout

[Chorus]

It's your life

You're making tracks

But I can't be there

If you change your mind

And come on back - come on back

And I dedicate  this song to the hours

When the power of roses lived in me

With the thorn and with the petal

And with surrender to the honey bee

{spoken word - Ron Sexsmith}

'The other guinea hen died of a broken heart, and we came to New York. I used to sit at a table, drawing wings with a pencil that kept breaking and I kept remembering how your mind looked when it slept for several years, to wake up asking why. So then you turned into a photograph of someone who's trying not to laugh at someone who'd trying not to cry'