A Motherwell Romance
Wanting life easy but living it hard
Dons his sick kilt and has one for the road
Gone to repeat the story he’s been told
In the bar where he hasn’t been barred.
Scotland is playing, they’ll win or they’ll lose
He orders a pint, the fifth of the night
Loneliness fades and the world becomes right
An amber-flecked ale is his muse.
He’s Motherwell born, and Motherwell bred
Sings with his heart when his team finally scores
Of flowers of Scotland, of highlands, of moors
His voice clear though booze clouds his head.
He turns from the screen and heads to the bar
Heavy the hand which holds a dry glass
When he hears the laugh of that terrible lass
Who haunts his drunk nights from afar.
The quiet moment before their eyes meet
Is somehow enough to sober him up
He thought ‘til escaped a desperate hiccup
He remembers her under the sheets.
A fresh pint in hand, he moves through the crowd
Spills on his sick kilt, as she steps aside
Like she did years ago, and part of him died
And the voices begin to get loud.
Reminders of dreams that never came true
Orange-scented breeze that spills through her hair
Spanish sun kissing the bodies they share
He loves her, and she loves him too.
He doesn’t remember seeing her last
He doesn’t remember saying goodbye
He doesn’t remember making her cry
He lifts up his pint, and drinks it down fast.