Patrick Wolf

The storm blows around
This harbour town
I listen to its wind as a choir
The shipping forecast
Is crackling
Like wet wood upon a fire
And time slows and slips away
The tourists come around in May
'Till August when the clouds roll in
The pier cracks, the awnings fade
The Ferris wheel spins slowly in the rain,
The day is gone.
Under this weather
Under this weather
Such shadows are blossoming
Out at sea
I am not going to set myself free here