The Turnpike Inn - Ian Anderson

Go no farther: access denied down

byways, freeways of the past.

The superhighway tollhouse humbly

begs your pause, so just hold fast.

A word in ear, free marketeer suggests

you ponders, and takes your choice.

For right of passage, freight or message,

change your horses, raise your voice

in protest at the pretty penny

taken for your mortal sins.

But dally now in sweet surrender, drown

sorrows at the Turnpike Inn.

Beware the brigand, pistols drawn,

who offers life for modest fee

and ends his days like poor John Austin,

last man on the Tyburn Tree.

The palest ale, the stoutest porter

fortify the heart, the breast.

Weary head on eider pillow, horse

blanket over, down to rest.

Though we too steal from honest wage,

come lie with us, good kith and kin

and dally now in sweet surrender,

drown sorrows at the Turnpike Inn.

Drown sorrows at the Turnpike Inn.

Drown your sorrows at the Turnpike Inn.

Drown sorrows at the Turnpike Inn.

Though we too steal from honest wage,

come lie with us, good kith and kin

and dally now in sweet surrender,

drown sorrows at the Turnpike Inn.

Drown sorrows at the Turnpike Inn.

Drown sorrows at the Turnpike Inn.