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THE GREY MISTS OF LAUGHARNE
© 2004 by David Llewellyn

So young and easy, under apple boughs
The starry dingle, is shining now
As boyhood wonders, on a hill of ferns
Foretell a future prince of words
So forgive his adolescence
Cause if you listen carefully
We will all hear his voice
Through the grey mists of Laugharne
When he sings in his chains like the sea

And so to London, with his Irish bride
His love of Caitlin, so strong inside
Amongst the jesters, God he’s diamond bright
Still on the outside, but that’s all right
And then New York came and took him
And the bourbon flowed free
But you could still hear his voice
Through the grey mists of Laugharne
As he sang in his chains like the sea

The glass he’s holding won’t be his first
Nor it sufficient to quench his thirst
A trapeze artist, who stands alone
With no one holding a net below
And on that distant shore, he left us
His unfinished legacy
But we can still hear his voice
Through the grey mists of Laugharne
As he sings in his chains like the sea