grimbeek.com.au

Perhaps I’m the devil
In the shape of a man
Tempting the ladies
Whenever I can.

Or an ordinary man
With a desire to be
And a dream of perfection
That includes you and me.

Spouting some nonsense
On the way to the show
Improving my chances
As onwards we go.

It’s OK to gamble
On the way to the sea
With a lottery ticket
As a symbol of me.

Perhaps I’m the devil
In the shape of a man
Tempting the ladies
Whenever I can.

Or an ordinary man
With a desire to be
And a dream of perfection
That includes you and me.

I’m in the vale of sleep again
I’m in the vale of sleep again
Insulated from the sky
Outside the day goes by
The tractor and the butterfly
I may laugh or I may cry
Do I live or do I die
Number me among the dead
You can count from three to ten
I’m in the vale of sleep again
I’m in the vale of sleep again.

Outside the day goes on
Who can sing its winding song
The bee and the butterfly
Baked in a crucible until they die
Struggling against our will
Wrapped in the almanac
Like the snake and the toad
Painted white and painted black
We struggle along life’s road
But I’m in the vale of sleep instead
I’m in the vale of sleep instead.

I’m in the vale of sleep instead
I’m in the vale of sleep instead
Insulated from the sky
Outside the day goes by
The tractor and the breeze
Slumbering at my ease
I may laugh or I may cry
Do I live or do I die
Number me among the dead
You can count from three to ten
I’m in the vale of sleep again
I’m in the vale of sleep again.

I sit in this dusty room
And sing a dusty song
And as I play a dusty tune
I wonder how you are?

Outside the starry night
Shines down on you and me
Shining down its dusty light
Through all eternity.

And the tide of time
Rolls on by
The tide of time
Rolls on by.

Mother MacCrae stands at her loom
In the pale light of an ivory room
Weaving away does what she must
Making weapons that turn us to dust.

Yes, Mother MacCrae in her ivory room
Working away on a weapon of doom.

Mother MacCrae weaves and ties
Bright bands of light into ribbons of sky
Mother MacCrae knows just what she can do
In one big explosion of myrmidon hue.

Yes, Mother MacCrae in her ivory room
Working away on a weapon of doom.

Mother MacCrae of inscrutable eyes
Hands on the loom and a witness that dies
Mother MacCrae, what’s your delight
In being a technician of endless night?

Yes, Mother MacCrae in her ivory room
Working away on a weapon of doom.
Thursday 15 February 2007

My aim with the grimbeek.com.au site was to provide space to discuss matters statistical or methodological but also to make room for the personal as well.

The first approximation was to use a single blog site for both purposes but that wasn’t a great solution.

So, this is a space devoted entirely to non-statistical and non-methodological stuff of a personal, creative, or political nature.

I walk under ancient stars
Along an ancient track
Inbetween ancient trees
Urged on by an ancient breeze
And there’s no turning back
There’s no turning back.

No matter where I go
It’s always some place I’ve been
And no matter where I reach
It’s just another place I’ve seen
And it’s still the same old you
The same old me.

Yes, no matter where I go
I move on an ancient wheel
Taking me back to ancient times
Reminding me of ancient rhymes
Taking me back to ancient fields
To ancient fields.

I’m sailing in an ancient ship
Sailing on an ancient sea
Urged on by an ancient dream
Seeking an ancient stream
An ancient stream.

I’m climbing an ancient hill
Through an ancient night
Wielding ancient spells
Looking for an ancient well
Looking for an ancient site

I walk under ancient stars
Along an ancient track
Inbetween ancient trees
Urged on by an ancient breeze
And there’s no turning back
There’s no turning back.

Joan of Arc swims in the dark
Can’t afford sightseeing tours
Trying to avoid that final plunge
Her instinct is to cut and run

And all about an earthly hush
Hotly pursued by French machines
Alouette and John Paul Sartre
Nightmare figures from her dreams

Joan baking on the cross
What part of life do you understand?
Crowd is getting rather hot
Moment of death quite close at hand

And in the wings a dead band plays
The grasshopper is quite a guy
The mandolin is going strong
And far away the fire engine

The king of night sits on his throne
Hoping for a better deal
Laying out his lucky cards
Only Joan knows how he feels

And the droog plays on and on
An enemy to wrong and right
Cutting up his symphony
Paper engines on the breeze

Joan of Arc hides in the dark
Final moment coming soon
She much prefers the hidden deeps
The endless howling of monsoon

And who could call her right or wrong
To summon armies to her side
To battle for what she held dear
With loss and death in every eye

Joan baking on the cross
What part of life do you understand?
Crowd is getting rather hot
Moment of death quite close at hand