Terry O'Leary - The Morning of the Hurricanes lyrics

The Horsemen, holding broken reins The Morning of the Hurricanes, Sigh 'it's no use, it's all in vain, The King will soon surrender' The Bishops weep, the Rook's long gone, And Pieces, pacing, pale and wan, Watch Queen be ravaged Pawn by Pawn, Her Knight dares not defend her They wonder why they ever came, They have No One that they can blame, They have no face, they have no name, They're black and white, transgender The feeble minded Cleric clowns, Mouths hollow hurdy-gurdy sounds, While Fantom of the Opera frowns, And follows dazed dissenters The empty handed Vagabond Smokes stale cigars, strokes faded Blondes While wailing at the walls beyond, And kneels before he enters He's gaping through stained window panes, While waiting for the Hurricanes, He's spinning round and round in chains, Attached to life's tormentors The Savants serve the underfed While Jackals jape at saws once said, And Crows, collecting scattered bread, Adorn, with crumbs, the platter The Pirate whets his wooden leg, With pupils dull and visage vague, And if instead he's served the plague, It really doesn't matter His Princess, pale, no longer reigns, She's hiding from, the Dwarf explains, The coming of the Hurricanes The Stones stare, pointing at her The rustic clocks with spindled spokes Remind the Mimes to tell the Folks The time of day and other jokes, But No One looks to listen The Jokers wild and One Eyed Janes, Weep, winding up the rundown trains Mid whispers of the Hurricanes, And Priests no longer christen They're running round in marathons, With cuckoo birds and dying swans. While pitching pennies into ponds Their eyes opaquely glisten The Beggars, neath the balustrades, With bitter Children, Chambermaids, Are darning socks with broken spades As screams in dreams redouble They're spinning wool with endless threads, Crocheting hats to hide their heads They have no coats, they have no beds, Their faces, full of rubble But many things will not remain The Morning of the Hurricanes, When goblets filled with cool champagnes Implode on purple bubbles The White-Robed Maiden empties trash, And fumbles with an untied sash, - Her virgin urn's awash with ash - She's pacing in the Palace Her hopes converge in coffee spoons, Her memories adrift in dunes, Yet still she smiles with teeth like prunes, And lips of painted callous And long before the midnight drains - The Saviour wakes, the Loser gains - The waters of the Hurricanes Will fill her empty chalice The storm behind the clarinets, The silver flutes, the castanets, The foghorns belching in quartets, The bagpipes, puffed and swollen, Is keeping time to tambourines While Tom Thumb and his Four-Inch Queens, They curse themselves and philistines, For time they've lost or stolen They stumble through the old domains, They cannot stop the Hurricanes - The fountain weeps, the mountain wanes, And sands just keep on rollin' The Hunchbacks juggle twisted canes And blanch before the Hurricanes In melted sleet, in frozen rains, In bruised and battered sandals They'll groan within the land of gulls, The land of stones, the land of nulls, They'll crawl between the blackened lulls, For Night Time brooks no candles They'll pray to Dogs, while Nuns and Dukes, Reflect on long forgotten Spooks - It's really more than random flukes That doors are lacking handles The Crowds are throbbing in the jails, Stooped, peering through a fence of nails - The light within their eyeballs pales With plastic flame that sputters They're sleeping there because they must, Their eyelids hang like peeling rust, Their tears, palled pellets in the dust, Behind the bolted shutters They'll reawake without their pains The Morning of the Hurricanes, Without their sores, without their stains, Their agonies will fill the drains And overflow the gutters