Wanting life easy but living it hard                     

Dons his sick kilt and has one for the road

Gone to repeat the story he’s been told   

In the bar where he hasn’t been barred.             

 

Scotland is playing, they’ll win or they’ll lose      

He orders a pint, the fifth of the night                

Loneliness fades and the world becomes right

An amber-flecked ale is his muse.                        

 

He’s Motherwell born, and Motherwell bred

Sings with his heart when his team finally scores         

Of flowers of Scotland, of highlands, of moors    

His voice clear though booze clouds his head.    

 

He turns from the screen and heads to the bar  

Heavy the hand which holds a dry glass        

When he hears the laugh of that terrible lass  

Who haunts his drunk nights from afar.             

 

The quiet moment before their eyes meet

Is somehow enough to sober him up                   

He thought ‘til escaped a desperate hiccup        

He remembers her under the sheets.                   

 

A fresh pint in hand, he moves through the crowd       

Spills on his sick kilt, as she steps aside              

Like she did years ago, and part of him died     

And the voices begin to get loud.                          

 

Reminders of dreams that never came true       

Orange-scented breeze that spills through her hair      

Spanish sun kissing the bodies they share         

He loves her, and she loves him too.                    

 

He doesn’t remember seeing her last                              

He doesn’t remember saying goodbye                

He doesn’t remember making her cry                

He lifts up his pint, and drinks it down fast.