Photographs of 1971

The evidence of you is turning grey
And they’re twisting in the ruins of your ashtray
Are the sentimental lies all on their way
Can’t you see you’re turning everyone away
But I wish you well
I wish you well, on the run
Tell me if you’re leading me insane
Marching with the fools in your own parade
With your photographs of 1971
Can you hear me through the barrel of your gun?
But I wish you well
I wish you well
I wish you well, on the run
No one’s ever had it all so well
And drifted off and dragged it all through hell
In the letter you addressed to me
Were the words you hoped would set you free
I wish you well
I wish you well
I wish you well, my son