Savage night on a misty island.
Lights wink out in the canyon walls.
Two old boys in a stolen racer.
Black rubber contrails in the unwashed halls.
And all roads out of here seem to lead right back to the
I've gone from here to Paris, London,
And even riding on a jumbo to Bombay.
The long haul back holds faint attraction,
But the people here know they're O.K.
See the girl following the red balloon: walking all alone
On her Rock Island.
Doesn't everyone have their own Rock Island ?
Their own little patch of sand ?
Where the slow waves crawl and your angels fall
And you find you can hardlystand.
And just as you're drowning, well, the tide goes down.
And you're back on your Rock Island.
Hey there, girlie with the torn dress, shaking:
Who was it touched you ? Who was it ruined your day ?
Whose foolprint calling card ? And what they want.
Stepping on your beach anyway ?
I'll be your life raft out of here, but you'd only drift right
Back to your Rock Island.
Hey, boy with the personal stereo: nothing 'tween the ears
But that hard rock sound.
Playing to your empty room, empty guitar tune.
No use waiting for that C.B.S. to come around.
'Cos all roads out of here seem to lead right back to the