Dan's headgear is purple. It's a Los Angeles cap.
It's ripped on the brim. It's his travelling hat.
The things it must see when Dan hits the road.
And leaves for who knows where in travelling mode.
Redwoods in B.C. and wheat in the plains.
Cool autumn nights and warm springtime rains.
Lots of people and streets - never been there before.
His cap goes along 'cause it never gets bored.
It's ripped on the brim. It's a Los Angeles hat.
Dan's headgear is purple.
it's his travelling cap.
Window pain and broken glass.
Not a mirror. Just a mask.
Swept up shards; a forgotten few
Left behind to wait for you.
Cast aside your blue-eyed dove.
her lonely cry knows no love.
She tells her tale but you don't hear.
And from her soul a single tear.
The lighthouse beckons to the waves.
In solitude I waste the days.
With pen and paper I scribe my words.
To speak I know I won't be heard.
Spirits dance on the wind outside.
Below this room where I've come to hide
From friend and foe and all mankind.
To waste away my given time.
Modern eyes won't see this place
Hear my voice or know my face.
But wisdom lingers in a seagulls cry,
A mermaids song or a poetic sigh.
With pen to paper I scribe my words.
To love I know I won't be heard.
In solitude I waste the days.
And from the lighthouse await the waves.
