Speightstown

From our frozen hands and feet to a tropic blast of heat.
We anticipate the fun steppin' off of 621.
With Crisma in the air are the cane-fields in dispair
Of the grim realter's scythe
And Extra Old we're lookin' to buy.

Chorus:
In the late afternoon sun of Speightstown.
The narrow streets and sky of Speightstown.
Chattle houses falling down in Speightstown.
And the blue and gold and blue of Speightstown.

From the parish of St. John, Bathsheba's vista surrounds.
Will a surfer's mindset save Sam Lord from robbing graves?
In between the storms that pass are empty beaches in our grasp?
As we float our cares away to a distant dismal day.

Repeat chorus twice.

(copyright 2003, Gord Easton)