On the island of the rain
ghostly fingers drum the air—
tap, tap, tapping on the pane,
washing all the shadows bare.
And dressed in deepest malachite,
ivy scrambles with delight
over echoes of the past:
some will crumble; some will last.
If ever, this is the proving ground.
It’s hard weather;
I'll see you when it turns around.
In the tower of the sky,
Italian suits lay out the plans
to set ablaze the depths of space
with know-nothings and also-rans.
But all of those Manhattan lights
will never give you back your rights.
Look upon the enemy:
he breaks down very easily.
If ever, this is the proving ground.
It’s hard weather;
I'll see you when it turns around.
In a palace on the moon
languishes the ruling class:
the charlatan and the buffoon,
and all the wealth that they amass
would not be worth a pittance here,
in the dungeons of their fear,
and when clear of the public eyes
hearts flutter—frightened butterflies.
If ever, this is the proving ground.
It’s hard weather;
I'll see you when it turns around.
I'll see you when it turns around.
