I wasn't gonna come back out.
The set was done, the lights were coming up... and then you all did that.
So — thank you. One more. Just the one.
Sixteen bars tonight, eleven countries — and I'll let you in on something.
I never went for the sunsets. I went for whoever was at the end of the bar.
And the best thing anybody ever handed me, I got half a world from here — a little bamboo bar in Thailand, rain coming down.
I was sitting there checking my watch, fretting about the ferry in the morning.
And this old boatman, skin like driftwood, he slides me a cold beer, nods out at the rain, and he says:
"You can't pack the tide in a suitcase, my friend — just sit here in the dry while it lasts."
And that's the whole night, isn't it. None of it was ever ours to keep.
We just got lucky enough to sit in it a while.
So here's the last one. Thank you for bringing me back out.
Let's borrow a little more.
Warm rain on the bamboo roof, incense and a little smoke,
the longtails knock the pilings, some old song on the radio.
The limestone goes black against the sky, and the surf lights up blue where it breaks,
and I don't know half of where I am — and I don't need to know.
I pay the man, I step down off the porch,
the wet sand takes my feet,
and I stop... and I look back once
at the lamplight through the rain,
before I turn and leave.
No, we don't hold the mornin',
and we don't own the tide —
we just get a little while
in the warm and in the dry.
It's borrowed time,
and it's borrowed light,
and weren't we lucky
just to sit in it a while.
There's an old man by the water,
been here longer than the road —
skin like the driftwood,
coilin' up a soakin' rope.
He catches me checkin' the hour,
frettin' on the ferry come the day,
and he hands me a cold Singha,
and he nods out toward the rain.
He says, "You can't pack the tide in a suitcase, my friend —
just sit here in the dry while it lasts."
So I take a long sip, and I set the hurry down,
and I walk on out the dock,
and I turn back once —
one lantern on his face.
No, we don't hold the mornin',
and we don't own the tide —
we just get a little while
in the warm and in the dry.
It's borrowed time,
and it's borrowed light,
and weren't we lucky
just to sit in it a while.
The rain lets up,
the clouds roll off,
and there's the same old stars—
same ones over this bamboo roof
as over my own back yard.
Same sun behind 'em, somewhere,
lettin' a little of it out at a time.
And every place I ever had to leave,
I got to stand in first—
got to feel it warm my face
a while, before I turned.
No, we don't hold the mornin',
and we don't own the tide —
we just get a little while
in the warm and in the dry.
It's borrowed time,
and it's borrowed light,
and weren't we lucky
just to sit in it a while.
Mornin' back home now,
sun on the kitchen floor,
coffee warm in my hand.
And I stop at the window,
lookin' out at the yard —
one more look...
before the day begins.