won’t slow down

Your plane it lands in ‘moen

And the train it moves so fast

Seeing blondie flight attendants

Getting off at stations past

You see the little houses

And the bigger boxes rise

The girders are like garters

They hold up to tantalize

 

And it’s now, now, now, now

That you end right up in Oslo town

You’ve no idea where you will go

But you’re in a kingdom, that you know

And a kingdom won’t slow down

 

You drag your bag to big street

And you see the hostel kid

Dressed up in leopard leggings

for the big Motley Crue gig

and you’re laughing at a deskman

with a mullet grown out long

in Europe, they are widespread

like a bird flu in Hong Kong

 

And it’s now, now, now, now

That you’re laughing hard in Oslo town

You’ve no idea what brought this up

What’s being mixed in that tea cup

And a rocker won’t slow down

 

You’re right next to a project

Where hijabi flow like trees

And you’ve never seen so many blacks

In brightened dashikis

And you think, wow, this is Norway

Home of Heyerdahl and fjords

Henrik Ibsen, would he ponder,

On the contrary, my lord!

 

And it’s now, now, now, now

That you’re looking hard in Oslo town

Norwegians are not merely blond

That stereotype is long begone

And diversity won’t slow down

 

 

You take the boat and see the kids

All ready to begin

Their little misadventures

At the open-air museum

You stand abroad the polarship

And wonder oh, so true?

This thing knows how to break the ice

And could I do it, too?

 

And it’s now, now, now, now

That you’re standing firm in Oslo town

The polarship and the reed raft

Are not just larks, they’re truly daft

And explorers won’t slow down

 

You see the screaming Edvard Munch

Protected from the heist

The blondie children all in line

Educated in zeitgeist

The fields, and sun, and soon you are

Surrounded by the town

You take a camera and you smile

Impossible to frown

 

And it’s now, now, now, now,

That you’re finding hope in Oslo town

The screams have turned to smiles firm

And the way it happened was to learn

That the city won’t slow

It will not ever slow

Why would it ever slow down?

Riga, my love?

Some of us had to get out of town

Some of us had to go

Some of us had to go somewhere

Besides the club Zavood

And so we went to Latvia by bus

A four-hour drive at dawn

Through Tartu, Elva, Valga

Before hitting border zones

 

Some of us had to get out of town

Some of us had to go

Some of us had to go somewhere

Besides the club Zavood

When we hit the customs office

They took my papers out

And they brought a cocker spaniel in

To sniff for drugs and louse

 

Some of us had to get out of town

Some of us had to go

Some of us had to go somewhere

Besides the club Zavood

The sun was oh, so absent from

our kickoff morning day

the snow turned into marshland

every paved and cracked-up way

 

Some of us had to get out of town

Some of us had to go

Some of us had to go somewhere

Besides the club Zavood

The monument of freedom stood

Like soldiers watching tall

I was sad to hear when Brits went and

Pissed on it like a wall

 

Some of us had to get out of town

Some of us had to go

Some of us had to go somewhere

Besides the club Zavood

We drank ourselves to silly and

I chugged a quart of wine

I fell over in my friend’s lap

Getting drunk for the first time

 

 

Some of us had to get out of town

Some of us had to go

Some of us had to go somewhere

Besides the club Zavood

I sobered up through walking

3 kilometers one way

But fools, why did they take us

To another bar today?

 

Some of us had to get out of town

Some of us had to go

Some of us had to go somewhere

Besides the club Zavood

By the time we got to Golden

I didn’t feel like fun

So I danced to Blur and techno

While my friends all drank rum

 

Some of us had to get out of town

Some of us had to go

Some of us had to go somewhere

Besides the club Zavood

As I walked home carrying

My travel friends in tow

I thought, this is exactly like

A trip from club Zavood!

 

Some of us had to get out of town

Some of us had to go

Some of us had to go somewhere

Besides the club Zavood

Some of them had to get out of town

Some of them had to roam

But all they did was drink just like

We do back at our home!

the lost boy of Helsinki

Wake up at eight, you think you’ll try to go and seize the day

But you throw your call back button on to try to get away

You wake up two hours later with a thumping ache on top

Caused by caffeinated bloodstreams devoid of the morning cup

And the bunk bed of Helsinki will guard you in your life

Where the brother snores above you and you haven’t got a light

 

Whistling all the day, my boy, whistling all the day

 

The Olympic Stadion is full of modernistic nooks

They say no primus burners, so you settle for a book

You learn of literacy in the youngest capital

You see the modern imagery, so raw and vaginal

And the lost boy of Helsinki will leave off for the day

Where the trolley goes to Centrum and the winds ne’er go away

 

Whistling all the day, my boy, whistling all the day

 

You sit there watching people and you sit there waiting long

You look for Senattori and the stations just go on

You take your risk at Stockmann and you wander without wit

Til a dustman yells “Can I help you?” with an accent like a Brit

And the lost boy of Helsinki will soon be on his way

With a garbageman to guide him and the hopes ne’er go away

 

Whistling all the day, my boy, you’re whistling all the day

 

Your guide is off to school teach and you’re left there all alone

So you wander into temppe rock and you hear the Slavic tones

of Russian tourist folkies as they snap their SLRs

probably got from blackened markets not too far from Gorky Park

And the tour guide speaks pa-russky; and you’ll soon be on your way

Where a church is not a lecture hall, but a place for hope in faith

 

Whistling all the day, my boy, you’re whistling all the day

 

You got caught up in protests fighting federal policies

Letting immigrants to live there without  hope for salaries

You don’t know what you’re saying, but you’ll find out soon enough

When the march is finally over and your guide translates it rough

And the lost boy of Helsinki is now a dissident

but he doesn’t know a single thing about the Parliament

 

Whistling all the day, my boy, you’re whistling all the day

 

 

You eat your fish and pasties with the gusto of a chef

And you wander into punk shops and you speak of the Old West

You ask for Finnish punk rock and they say we hate the sound

Of our mother tongue in music so we don’t keep it around

And the lost boy of Helsinki’s at Combat Rock today

With a Pixies button on his shirt and boots headed for the bay

 

Whistling all the day, my boy, you’re whistling all the day

 

You wish you had a cycle so you’d ride to Esplanade

Where the statues in their t-shirts swing their hammers fighting bombs

You sit there with your coffee with a jumper on from home

And your redhead friend is smiling ‘cos she’s glad that you could roam

And the lost boy of Helsinki was found by friends so good

We’re in iconic spaces and surrounded by the woods

 

Whistling all the day, my body, you’re whistling all the day

 

When getting on the ferry that goes back to fatherland

You shed a tear for somewhere that you’ve longed to overland

 You don’t know when you’d return but you know the soul lives on

And you’ll put it all in poetry someday before you’re gone

And the lost boy of Helsinki is still a lost boy now

When the train goes back to Centrum, buy me one-way fare somehow

 

Whistling all the day, my boy, you’re whistling all the day

Listening all the day, my boy, you’re listening for the way

in search of lost mind

Wake up, young folks, the time is near

About six in the morning dawn

To walk in dark and drag your gear

And egg a cigarette drag on

To fight with clerks who don’t translate

The language of the local town

Where three people say the words of one

Just to get a ticket never found

 

The bus, it dragged along the cracks

And crannies of the border state

The passports all get passed but mine

Keep the bus from going faster rates

And madness in the capital

Where cars all slam like poems fast

When you’re running ‘cross an 8-lane road

You don’t know if you’re going to last

 

You sit there in the airport clean

The only people in your sight

Read Kerouac and drink a Coke

While waiting for your low-cost flight

Where you need a euro for the john

And seven more to buy some space

Packed like sardines in a tin

RyanAir, ne’er fair, always the case

 

You reach the strip, get asked why here

And don’t know where you ‘re going

100 km from your hope

clutching the bus seat knowing

that it’s a long ride with no chance

to be in comfort, Riga’s had

revenge on your gastrointestinal

system, like impaler Vlad

 

but you reach Stockholm in the night

you pass IKEA on E4

you glue your nose to the airport shuttle                                                                              window asking for much more

by now, the feeling’s passed in time

and time to find a place to sleep

you throw your body to a hostel

and take on the backpacker’s beat

 

 

you wander around for hours and hours

friends kicking bottles like footballs

you see the people all in line

for electro-sex and rave-on halls

they freeze their legs for glamour hope

and the rest of us are bound and wrapped

in parkas, Sherpa hats and coasts

 

I see black folks for the first time

In months I think, I can’t recall

Seeing Estonia full of colors that

Are besides pasty whitewash wall

I see an energy that I don’t

Help but feel like I’m at home

The comforts of the gamla stad

Are familiar yet unknown

 

The palace of the king and queen

The regal air I learn to breathe

The oldest houses I have seen

I find the age hard to believe

I didn’t expect euphoria

I didn’t expect to like it all

But a quest for doubleplus emotion

Is grounded in the city walls

the road to Island county

drag our bags across the Tartu town

seek the bus to Saaremaa afar

with a pasty and a iPod packed

and water in a plastic jar

it is a long road to island county

it’s a long way to go

 

everyone is just like you

they’ve packed their chests of ice and meat

they’ve packed their Viru Valge nips

they’ve packed their bread of rye and wheat

it is a long road to Island county

it is a long way to go

 

your friends and you have never been

to Island county, six away

from Tartumaa, near Võru linn

but now you go for St. John’s Day

it is a long road to Island county

it is a long way to go

 

you sit there with them quietly

their eyes are closed like elders deep

you cannot peel your eyes from land

while friends are all dead tired and sleep

it is a long road to Island county

it’s a long way to go

 

go through the heart of fatherland

and towards the western coast

where everyone will go for sun

and loves to party most

it is a long road to Island county

it’s a long way to go

 

you curve around the narrow roads

and stop at fields agrown

you could pick up any random man

or someone that you’ve known

it is a long way to Island county

it’s a long way to go

 

you approach the western shore

where vessels cross the sea

you have no choice to sit and just

wait oh so patiently

it is a long road to Island county

it’s a long way to go

 

and finally, the bus it crawls

into the floater’s hull

and you walk out with your little pack

to see the sea so full

it is a long road to Island county

it is a long way to go

 

the Baltic Sea, o, quiet sea

you pass us by in waves

as Island county comes so close

I long for longer days

the islands blink as i go by

the turbines turn and spin

as we get to Island county

have another shot and grin

oh, it’s a long road to Island county

but John’s Day thus begins

flowers on the interstate

With flowers blooming on paved roads

where no one ever stops or knows

the feeling of simple charming tasks

is sometimes all the mind will ask

you pull your car up to the side

you turn the radio up high

and listen to the voices say

what a truly, truly blessed day,

approach the yellow flowers grouped

in three or four near the clover loop

take two or three fingers to the ground

and take some buttercups to town

when you arrive to city squares

and smell the mixed-up urban air,

take one of them and pass them forth

to anyone to show their worth

say spring has come and joyful it

will be to see Sol’s chariot

fly through the sky among the clouds

say it to the heavens,

and say it loud.

traces

take these old properties,

add 27 stories to them,

letting mental prismacolors

stretch out reality

the empty sidewalks become full

of women in hijab 

as MIA’s song fills the air

hands up, crime down,

represent the real town