The river itself feeds on souls
The suicides, the ones who let go of the controls
Like the woman whose beauty they couldn't replace
The morgue even made a plaster cast of her face
There's at least one a week, more women than men
For some reason or other, it changes by season
It sometimes has nightmares, which truly is frightening
When the sky becomes filled with bouquets of lightening
Raindrops seeping into the letter box while I'm sleeping
Makes it seem like those who wrote me were weeping
The river's emotional with waves made of mercury
Sometimes brutal, sometimes nurturing
It rocks me to sleep with oscillations of anguish
It whispers its secrets but in its own language
It leaves me to languish, it breaks all of my promises
It threatens my premises, it's my friend and my nemesis
My houseboat is well suited for finer affairs
I think, it just needs a few minor repairs
It's like a lawnchair chapel, to make an analogy
Moss at the waterline, skirted with algae
Held together with the help of nothing other than trust
The chimney and water tank is covered with rust
Shutters cover windows, some of which are stained glass
All the way around the deck is a railing of plain brass
Unpolished and pretty, Norweigan design
From the front there's a clothes line reaching behind
To the back where the anchor and gang plank hang out
There's a chance you might see two or three pairs of pants waving in the wind
The inside is wooden, by every means reinforced, all around by heavy beams
Low ceilings and oil lamps, candles and incense
A great big bed that would be fit for a princess
Pot bellied stove, transistor radio
Roll top desk, this is the way to go
A person can dream here and write with impunity
The sunlight is proper, there is endless opportunity
The views are inspiring, bare and chameleon
Reflections and shadows play on the ceiling
Troubles are handled with propriety and no delay
All I have to do is draw the anchor up and float away