I woke up in a Soho doorway, a policeman knew my name.
He said you can go sleep at home tonight, If you can get up and walk away
I staggered back to the underground, And the breeze blew back my hair
I remember throwin punches around, And preachin from my chair
I took the tube back out of town, Back to the rollin pin
I felt a little like a dying clown, With a streak of rin tin tin
I stretched back and I hiccupped, And looked back on my busy day
Eleven hours in the tin pan, God, theres got to be another way
I know theres a place you walked, Where love falls from the trees
My heart is like a broken cup, I only feel right on my knees
I spit out like a sewer hole, Yet still receive your kiss
How can I measure up to anyone now, After such a love as this?
Who are you.....
Interestingly enough, (and probably not lost on you), that is far more appropriate of a question in context than what 90% of people who ask "Who is John Gault" think the question means or symbolizes.