The off-shore club was called Cape Runaway
Its rocky isolation swore allegiance to winter’s setting sun
The trumpet wailed a bluesy essence, ‘we’re only born to die’
Each note counter-swirled in coffee-colored ambiance

Secret lovers linger in Sheol’s darkened alleyway
Double-strength their hidden-high in green adrenaline
Cocooned in summer’s romance, wrapped in the chains they occupy
A spectrum writ in red-shift gold-dust, they notice nothing is askance

They’re trapped in storms of siren songs as they sail a profane coast
Rum-runners singing of divine deliverance, Heaven’s soul aflame
Bay of Plenty pools its wreckage with each waking hour
Night terrors overshadow the escaping light of day

Devil’s riding shotgun, to Prohibition raise a toast
And watch the tide come rolling in; illegal money is its name
Pirates’ lavish penny-ante, the only so-called power
Fast speedboats from the Mainland, make their daily get-away

Players come and players go, but the barroom’s always filled
With gamblers and high rollers, gangsters and their molls
The rich keep getting richer, brewing bathtub gin
While the poor aspire to nothing more than gaining wealth and fame

Death is right around the corner, just waiting for the thrill
Soon he’s doing in each dirty guy and his speakeasy doll
With a twinkling in his eye, the slightest quirky grin
The Reaper hoists his Tommy gun and laughs, “Oh my, what a shame!”

The sun sets in the ocean, an orange-peel afterglow
Sinking deep in evening’s eyes, orbs of blackened charcoal
Moon hangs brightly in the sky, star patterns shine agreeable
Contentment dawns acceptable, her haven in a brand new day

Cape Runaway lies vacant, with nothing left to show
except its rusty bloodstains and empty bullet holes
An isolated home, a rocky-nest to terns and eagles
And the crashing sea-foam’s salty spray