Matchstick Man

So there he was then, Penzance to play

Christmas Eve in a nowhere band

Now early morning Christmas Day

He’s hitching home to Geordieland

Last night the snow came, just my luck

And who the hell do you think you are

Climbing up into that truck

With your old bag and your guitar

And you, you would-be vagabond

No-one invited you, you know

Matchstick man, up in the dawn

You’ve got five hundred miles to go

The driver now must drop off his load

The snow still laying thick on the ground

Leaves him on a high crossroads

Where he can see for miles around

The sun is shining, sky is blue

And everything is white and bare

Not a car comes into view

There’s nothing moving anywhere

And you, you would-be vagabond

No-one invited you, you know

Matchstick man, you speck upon

These vast and silent plains of snow