I hold the baker in my grip
The metal edges start to chip
He smells of yeast and toasted grain
While I absorb the summer rain
Rusting slow in the purple haze
Counting down all the golden days
Iron bars and a floury hand
Waiting here in a salted land
His apron carries white chalk stains
The heat of oven fills his veins
He leans his weight against my spine
A heavy heart in a jagged line
Rusting slow in the purple haze
Counting down all the golden days
Iron bars and a floury hand
Waiting here in a salted land
The streetlights flick on one by one
Before the city says it's done
He watches buses roll on by
Under a bruised and heavy sky
Rusting slow in the purple haze
Counting down all the golden days
Iron bars and a floury hand
Waiting here in a salted land
Orange flakes on a blackened beam
Tearing apart a steady dream
Cold hard steel and a warm soft bread
Words of the night remain unsaid
The camera clicks from down the street
Where the concrete and the clover meet
He is a ghost in a linen coat
A quiet song in a dusty throat
Rusting slow in the purple haze
Counting down all the golden days
Iron bars and a floury hand
Waiting here in a salted land
Iron and flour, iron and flour.
Just a smudge in the purple hour.
