Har lyssnat på den "nya" versionen av "Caribbean Wind" (den som kallas "rehearsal with pedal steel") ett antal gånger nu. Gjorde ett snabbt försök att transkribera texten.
She was from Haiti, fair brown and intense
I don’t think she’d ever known about innocence
I was playin' a show in Miami in the theater of mystery.
Told her about Jesus, told about the rain
She told me about the vision, told me about the pain
That had risen from the ashes and abided in her memory.
Was she a virtuous woman? I really can’t say
Something about her said trust me anyway.
As the days turned to minutes and the minutes turned back into hours.
I pretended to be sleeping and he thought I was
But I was only paying attention like a rattlesnake does
When he's hearin' footsteps trampling over the flowers.
The Caribbean winds still blow from Mexico to Curacao
From Chinatown to the furnace of desire.
And them distant ships of liberty on the iron waves so bold and free
Bringing everyone that's near to me, closer to the fire.
Our shadows drew closer, until they touched on the floor
Prodigal son waiting close to the door.
Preaching obscenities, waiting for the night to arrive
He was well connected, but her heart was a snare
And she had left him to die in there
But I knew I couldn’t get him out while he still was alive.
Well the stars in the balcony, flies buzz my head
Ceiling fan was broken, there’s heat in my bed
Street band playin', "Nearer My God To Thee.”
She looked into my eyes, I heard the mission bell ring
She said, "I know what you're thinkin', but there ain't a thing
We can do about it, so we might as well let it be.”
And the Caribbean wind still blows from Mexico to Curacao
From Chinatown to the furnace of desire.
And them distant ships of liberty on them iron waves so bold and free
Bringing everything that's ever close to me, closer to the fire.
Atlantic City by the cruel sea
I hear a voice crying "Daddy”, I always think it’s for me
But it's only the silence on the buttermilk hill that calls.
Every new messenger bringin' evil reports
About armies that are rioting, whose fuses are short
And them ugly gargoyles and hate words written on walls.
Would I have married her? I don't know I suppose
She had bells in her braids, fire in her clothes
But the curtain was rising, like they say “the show must go on”.
And i felt it come over me, some kind of gloom
I was gonna say "Come on with me, i got plenty of room.”
But i knew i'd be lyin' and besides she had already gone.
And them Caribbean winds still blow from Curacao to Mexico
From Chinatown to the furnace of desire.
And them distant ships of liberty on iron waves so bold and free
Bringing everything that's near to me, nearer to the fire.
