Bruce Cockburn Follow

blue billboard on the roof next door

makes a square of light on the kitchen floor

smokes rises from a cigarette

there's a dull glisten where the table's wet

soft breath rises from the bed

a thousand question marks over my head

turn on the tube but there's nothing new

the usual panic in red, white and blue

"military advisors" marching in the square

knife-sharp trouser creases slicing air

private armies on suburban lawns

shoulders braced against the tidal dawn

all's quiet on the inner city front

i don't know why i should but i feel content

bell in the fire station tower

rings out the measure of the racing hours

i slip through the door to the roof outside

to gaze at the sign hanging in the sky

that sailor on the billboard looks so self-possessed

doesn't have a thing to forgive or forget

all's quiet on the inner city front.