Nothing But the Same Old Story

Paul Brady

(Assuming familiarity with the historical context.  Now that’s a silly thing to do.  Sigh, okay if I must: http://www.paulbrady.com/?page_id=1471)

I was just about nineteen
When I landed on their shore
With my eyes big as headlights
Like the thousands and thousands who came before
I was going to be something . . .
Smiled at the man scrutinising my face
As I stepped down off the gangway

Came down to their city
Where I worked for many’s the year
Built a hundred houses
Must’ve pulled half a million pints of beer
Living under suspicion
Putting up with the hatred and fear in their eyes
You can see that you’re nothing but a murderer
In their eyes, we’re nothing but a bunch of murderers

Hey, Johnny, can’t wait till Saturday night!
Got a thirst that’s raging . . .
Know a place where we can put that right
Wash away the confusion
Hose down this fire inside
But look out!
‘Cause I’ll tear you into pieces if you cross me.

I’m sick of watching them break up
Every time some bird brain puts us down
Making jokes on the radio . . .
Guess it helps them all drown out the sound
Of the crumbling foundations
Any fool can see the writing on the wall
But they just don’t believe that its happening.

There’s a crowd says I’m all right
Say they like my turn of phrase
Take me round to their parties
Like some dressed up monkey in a cage.
And I play my accordion
Oh! but when the wine seeps through the facade
It’s nothing but the same old story
Nothing but the same old story

Got a brother in Boston 
Says he’ll send me on the fare 
Just wrote me a letter 
Making out that he’s cleaning up out there 
Two cars in the driveway. 
Summer house way down on the Cape 
And I know he’d fix me up in the morning 

I’ve been thinking about it 
But it seems so far to go 
People say in the winter 
you’d get lost underneath the snow 
And there’s this girl from my home place 
We’ve been planning to move back and give it a try 
So I never got around to going 
That’s why I never got around to going.

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