La da da da,
da da da da da, da da da da
La da da da, da da da da da,
da da da da
They said it would be hard to find it
They said I might not find it at all
I started off in
Dun
Laoghaire, my back pressed
against an old stone wall
At
Martell -o -Taron near
Sammymon
Strand, he said it was the
centre of the world
That's where the great adventure started,
just himself and a
Galway girl
Looking for
James, looking for
James
Joyce's grave
Looking for change,
looking for change,
Joyce is grey
La la la la, la la la la, la la la la
La la la la, la la la la, la la la la
People say he re -wrote the
English language,
though it's not strictly his native tongue.
And many have tried since this tall,
skinny man had penned a paper, and confused and delighted
and disturbed and excited everyone.
The enormous country
just couldn't hold him,
Oscar
Wilde,
Samuel
Beckett,
Yeats,
Swift,
Edna
O 'Brien too.
Now it's up to us in all these enlightened days,
that's up to all of us, me and you,
To go looking for
James, looking for
James
Joyce's grave
He travelled all round
Europe, pursued by death
Found his grave out in
Switzerland
In a land fit for exiles,
where in 1941 the light was at last shut out from his eyes.
I asked at the hotel,
they told me to go to the train station.
At the train station they
told me to go to information.
And information told me all about a zoo
and a beautiful view of the city.
On the way I saw a dog
as small as a mouse.
I saw a dog as big as a house.
I saw a puppet playing
Lucille by
Little
Richard in a market square
And hundreds of black and
white ballroom dancers
Whirling sporadically and magnetically
in a shop window
On the way I stopped off in a bar or cafe
Full of all these beautiful black clothes,
strange stone people
Playing dice and backgam
mon round splintered tables
An archist literature on the floor,
expressionist arts on the walls
Death metal music raging from
a cracked speaker in the corner
Told them I was looking for
James, looking for
James
Joyce's grave
I finally found his grave high on a hill just beside
the zoo with a beautiful view of the
city.
First I saw the statue, the spectacle,
the slicked back hair, the fiery, wiry, keeper
and crucifier of this country's conscience
and all of our unconscious.
In an autumn crescent of gold, green and brown,
I brushed the fallen leaves off the inscription
plaque, which was just be side the zoo and
it had such a beautiful view of the city.
Looking for
James, looking for
James
Joyce's grave.
I re member writing this song on
the back page of the evening paper
My home city in the rain,
University
Street
Ready to go, looking again
Looking for change,
looking for change, is grey
Looking for change,
looking for change, choice is grey
We were singing
He wrote in 1904,
Chamber
Music, he said the
soul of a country is
Lies in the heart of the river,
where love wanders there
Pale flowers on his mantle,
dead leaves on his hair
Oh, the dead leaves on his hair,
I hope one day you'll make it there
Looking for change,
looking for change,