Prospects

A train ride to Tuesday, a platform far away
Scarlet shades of evening move clouds of grey
Awaking arriving, the dirty station
Where he passes crowds of people who don't see him there

Here's a desert island room
For a man who's cast away
Stranded in this home from home
From his family far away

Home, well this is it
This is it, is this my heart?
I miss you with all my heart
This is not, is this not my home?

One shoe-lace, cardboard suitcase, one passport from the Queen
One room for a light bulb where no one's been
Sticks and stones, my old bones, not like 1954
Then they liked me fine but not anymore

This empty room where he's marooned with nothing left to say
But in the dark he thinks of home far away

Home, well this is it
This is it, is this my heart?
I miss you with all my heart
This is not, is this not my home?

I feel cold getting old, more than the climate's change
Stranded on this island, the rate of exchange

Here's a desert island room
For a man who's cast-away
Today he will not be at work
There is no work anyway

How is it when you feel it?
Do you wonder what gets you down?
You're looking in the windows
When you walk this town