THE GHOST OF BILLY MULVILLE
As I looked out of my window,
In the heart of Dublin Four,
The ghost of Billy Mulville,
Went walking past my door.
He wore a heavy top-coat,
His face was pale and thin,
He looked up at my window,
But I would not let him in.
He looked up at my window,
But I would not let him in.
What was he doing walking in Upper Leeson Street?
A cardboard suitcase in his hand,
And hob-nails on his feet.
He flashed up at my window,
His old big-toothed grin,
I knew he wanted comfort,
But I would not let him in.
I would not let him in,
I knew he wanted comfort,
But I would not let him in.
As I hid behind the curtain,
And beat a coward’s retreat,
The ghost of Billy Mulville,
Walked up Leeson Street.
He vanished in the traffic,
His suitcase full of sin,
I knew he wanted comfort,
But I would not let him in.
I would not let him in,
I knew he wanted comfort,
But I would not let him in.
That night as I sat writing,
The clock it did strike four,
The ghost of Billy Mulville,
Stood on my kitchen floor.
He said “The fight you’re fighting Johnny,
Is a fight you’ll never win”
Well I locked a door inside my head,
And I did not let him in.
I did not let him in.
I did not let him in.
I LOCKED A DOOR INSIDE MY HEAD
AND I DID NOT LET HIM IN.