Streets of Quebec

We were drinking hard on rue Couillard as the bars were letting out.

The Northern Lights were a gossamer blight, knockin’ some stars about.

Those stars shone down in shadows where no light ever shone back out.

We tuned guitars beneath the stars of that ruined, ribbon sky.

A mandolin sounded still in the wind and froze some passers-by.

The lilting sharp of some wino’s mouth harp seemed to cry…

I saw the street lamps burnin’ low

I listened to the whisperin’ wind blow.

I felt it on the back of my neck,

sittin’ on the streets of Quebec.

Well now Spider sang a few of those weary blues and

the crowd drew closer in.