Favourite Hour — текст песни (Elvis Costello)

Figure hanging on a leather band

Cog consults the watch he cups in his hand

Bejewelled movement measures lost and vanished time

Pray for the boy who makes his bed in cold earth and quicklime



Chorus:

So stay the hands, arrest the time

till I am captured by your touch

Blessings I dont count

Small mercies and such

The flags may lower as we approach the favourite hour



Now theres a tragic waste of brutal youth

Strip and polish this unvarnished truth

The tricky door that gapes beneath the ragged noose

The crippled verdict begs again for the lamest excuse



Chorus



Pull out my eyes so I may never spy

Waving branches as theyre waving goodbye

Their vile perfume brings to my mouth a bitter taste

The murmuring brooks had best speak up, its a terrible waste



Chorus