Hang the moon in an apple tree,
Glue folio stars on a blackboard,
For tonight I’m in the mood for
Drinking red wine and dance big
Holes in my woolen socks.

If I don’t get too pissed and end
Up in a whorehouse, I might
Meet you sitting quietly in a bar
Coaxing a jukebox into playing
Sighing records.

Dance till the barman throws us
Out, walk home as the moon is
Handed over to China’s night and
See the sun arise over the slagheap
The town’s people call a mountain.