All the homes on the globe are  like the television in your  eyes. A cross guarding your  heart the living years a  sacrifice. A shiver at the door  in the night, clouds cross a  black moonlight. Rushing on down  to the sound of a turning world.  There's a south by sou'westerly  force eight coming in strong.  Across the continental shelf  from the cold grey Malin beyond.  The need to keep control. The  need to stand alone at the edge  of the world. The adrenalin  infrastructure bringing on it's  troubles some more. All the laws  of the jungle stranded on your  latest shore. But the waves hold  the healer force. The years  disappear like a ghost.  Somewhere out of the sight of  the night and the light of day.  Now civilisation groans and the  news reel cries. Like a drowning  man his life in front of his  eyes. But the need to keep  control. The need to bare the  soul at the edge of the world.  And the man from St. Kilda went  over the cliff on a winters day.  At the edge of the world. At the  edge of the world.