The sweet smell of great sorrow lies over the Thames
Plumes of steam rise and merge into the leaden sky;
A man sits and dreams of flat, glassy rivers,
But awakes to a morning with no reason for sculling.
He's haunted by the memories of a calm paradise
In his youth or a dream, he can't be precise
He's chained for ever to the choppy old Tideway
It's not enough, it's not enough.
His blood has frozen & curdled with fright
His knees break too early & his catch isn't right
His scull is rocking with the wash from IC
His piece is ruined.
One world, one scull,
Time Pass, the river roll,
And he swears to the river of lost time and navigation
And silently curses that launch deviation,
Brow dark and troubled, the water's now screwed,
A grim intimation of what he would do.
There's an unceasing wind that blows from the right
And there's sweat in my eyes, that blinds my sight
And launches that move in way that reminds me,
Of speed limits broken.
