The Lady is adrift in a foreign land, singing on issues both humble and grand.
A decade flew past her and there on the page, she read that the prince had returned to the stage.
Hovering near treacherous water, a friend saw her drifting and caught her.
Unguarded fantasies flying too far, memories tumbling like sweets from a jar.
And take me down to the harbor now, grapes of the summer are low on the bough.
Ghosts of my history will follow me there, and the winds of the old days will blow through my hair.
Breath on an unlying ember, it doesn't take much to remember.
Those eloquent songs from the good old days set us to marching with banners ablaze.
But reporters, there's no sense in prying, our blue-eyed son's been denying.
The truths that are wrapped in a mystery, the sixties are over so set him free.
And take me down to the harbor now, grapes of the summer are low on the bough.
Ghosts of my history will follow me there, and the winds of the old days will blow through my hair.
Why do I sit the autumnal judge? Years of self-righteousness will not budge.
Singer, savior, it was his to choose. Which of us knows what was his to lose?
Titles are best when they're made of stone. Savior's a nuisance to live with at home.
Stars often fall, heroes go unsung, and martyrs most certainly die too young.
So thank you for writing the best songs. Thank you for writing a few long piece.
You're a savage gift on a wayward bus, but you stepped down and you sang to us.
And get you down to the harbor now, most of the sour grapes are gone from the bough.
Ghosts of Johanna will visit you there, and the winds of the old days will blow through your hair.
© transcript Emily Beynon