There’s a dog with a muzzle that can’t bear to be touched
By the last door standing, on an avenue of dust
A string of medals hanging from a rusty nail
A three-word message that yells out from the slate:
“Homes for heroes”
The killer’s in the guest room
The slums are overrun
There’s no one left to line the streets
For the coming of the cavalry
They’re marching up the stairs at dawn
And, at the sounding of the last roll call,
Stepping into air
I have to beg for the pills
I take them all at once
And each one’s a bullet or a key that locks me up
In homes for heroes
For victors and for victims
Lives after life
The drinkers in the Vulcan know
They’re never going to get parole
The city is a masterpiece
It’s beautiful but I can’t see the colours anymore
I am grieving for the stolen days
The cradle of the iron gates
Four walls and a door
Homes for heroes
Homes For Heroes is the dark horse of this album for me. It snuck in right at the end of the writing process. These were the hardest words to write, because I was so desperate to do justice to the idea: comparing traumatised soldiers leaving the army with ex-cons leaving prison, both struggling to live their lives outside of an institution. The song namechecks the Vulcan, my favourite pub on earth. It’s an unreconstructed boozer, right by the prison in Cardiff. I suspect it’s the first port of call for lots of former lags on their way out. It’s also my first port of call.
