When I discovered the artistic skills of the man who wrote this song, he was already dead. Exactly 33 years ago he stop breathing. Philip Parris Lynott was supposed to be Irish. He was born and died in a piece of land officially known as England. Only his funky deep black curly hair was darker than his skin. More than my half southeuropean half northaffrican already light grey beard. I am back in the Bodø. I continue my personal migration. Like Phil said, the boys are back in town, and as far as there will be whisky in the jarr we will continue feeling at home there where we fall asleep despite of the noise of those who dare to proclaim themselves the owners of the town.
Just in case you didn’t find it enigmatic enough, try to guest which picture is before and which one after:
Sleep well. I will get some lullaby from this guy and his other dear dead friend Gary. See you tomorrow… out in the fields.