strangely, no - got a lilting tune for the chorus easy peasy but the verse is blank - poetry as yet, not lyric. Is there a difference?
There's a question. Personally, I don't write poetry with rhyming patterns or metre - I don't read many contemporary poets who do. And a song's lyrics for me are defined by having even half a sense of the underlying melody and rhythm. But of course that's no general definition, and there must be many, many differences, if you think about it. On the other hand countless poems could be read as lyrics, and vice-versa. It's an interesting one.
I had Rupert Brooke, of all people, mainly in mind, with this one. ...Goes over counterpointed jig/waltz time, like Murphy's WaKe...So is there a difference?
Crazy Jane's Day Out
The sun slinks up and red clouds weep
on the old workhouse on the hill
It beats on the walls where the crazed can't sleep
and know they never will
But she'll dance, dance, dance through the rain
This is the day she goes clear
as she climbs through the shattered window-pane
and makes her way out of here
Goodbye to the madhouse
Crazy Jane's out and away
She'll cry this whole world is a whorehouse
but every dog has its day
So long to the doctors and all the smart talkers
and every bald lie she's been told
To all of the pushers, peddlars and hawkers
and every quick fix she's been sold
She'll dance, dance, dance through the rain
with any oul' beggar she calls to
for these aren't cracks in the paths through her brain
but cracks in the pavement she falls through
Goodbye...
Farewell to the father who pardons her sins
while he works at his own on the sly
To hell with her trespasses, now to break in
to the garden where the dark fruits lie
So she'll dance, dance, dance through the rain
and lay any lover she falls for
bite any hand and break any chain
and drain every bottle she calls for
Goodbye...
So it's all through the city she'll go
where the grey stone ways are stained
No marks of pity, no marks of woe
but paradise regained
And she'll dance, dance, dance through the rain
till the crowds gather round in disdain
So is it the devil that's holding his revel?
No, it's just crazy Jane
Goodbye...
Now the smoke-red sun goes down in the west
and the madhouse lights pierce the grey
marking the walls where the crazed can't rest
though the little dog's had its day
Still she'll dance, dance, dance through the rain
till the hardfaced hunters close in
the door slams shut, the sharp hits the vein
and the long dark night begins
Goodbye to the madhouse
Crazy Jane's out and away
She'll say this oul' world is a whorehouse
But every dog has its day
