The prodigal son never came back home
and his brother locked himself inside his room
Every night, his mother waits by the phone
for his father to call with news
“Someone saw him in Glasgow,
drinking single-malt scotch and writing
that was three weeks ago now,
but at least they said he was smiling”
His brother won't go outside where the rain still falls
for fear of losing what he's already lost
Every night, he sits with his back against the wall
and looks for paths his brother has crossed
“Someone saw him in Dublin,
drinking Irish stout draughts and half-singing
that was four weeks ago now,
but at least they said he was laughing”
His father's been gone for just as long
out looking for his son among ancient stone
but out in the rain of north Brae Tongue
He left his boy, his wife, his home
“Someone saw him in London,
drinking English strong ales and dreaming
that was five weeks ago now,
but at least he said he was leaving”