Man on the High Road
There’s a man who hangs out on the steps of the church
that’s on the main road close to home.
He’s there every day with a can on his perch
if it’s thirty degrees or it’s snowed.
He sees us come, he sees us go –
no TV, no web and no radio,
but he tunes into all of our best episodes,
there’s no storyline that he doesn’t know.
He sees it all, the man on the high road.
He knows it all, the man on the high road.
He sees the peddlers of Greek cigarettes
and Roma with babes in their arms,
bookmakers taking their back alley bets,
and street preachers bellowing psalms.
He sees us come, he sees us go –
no TV, no web and no radio,
but he tunes into all of our best episodes,
there’s no storyline that he doesn’t know.
He sees it all, the man on the high road.
He knows it all, the man on the high road.
He sees us walking by hand in hand,
and picking up chocolate at the newspaper stand.
He can tell from your tan we’ve had sun, sea and sand,
but the look in your eye says we haven’t found the promised land.
The promised land.
He sees us come, he sees us go –
no TV, no web and no radio,
but he tunes into all of our best episodes,
there’s no storyline that he doesn’t know.
He sees it all, the man on the high road.
He knows it all, the man on the high road.