Composed by Stan Rogers | © Fogarty’s Cove Music
I see it in your eyes,
Searching through the harbour,
And out across the bay.
His ring is on your hand;
He called you up from Cleveland yesterday.
Now who’s he left behind?
The weather’s fine, he’ll soon be coming ’round,
I try to hold you closer,
But your laker’s back in town.
Every forty days
He leaves you lying sleeping,
And clears for Thunder Bay.
You call me on the job,
And cry about how long he’ll be away.
You need a country band,
A cheap hotel and me to run around,
But for now it’s over,
Your laker’s back in town.
A distant whistle moans across the bay,
Pulls us apart
The singer says, “We’re gonna slow things down.”
Your cheating heart sounds like a clock run down,
Your laker’s back in town.
He comes in looking like he owns the place
And he knows you’re here.
The singer hollers, “It’s the final round.”
The final beer feels like a rock going down.
Your laker’s back in town.
The band has gone away,
They’re clearing off the tables,
And giving me the eye.
You took him out the door,
And never thought to turn to say goodbye,
And I’m the crying fool,
I know that you will call and I’ll be ’round
To try to hold you closer,
‘Til your laker’s back in town.
And try to hold you closer,
‘Til your laker’s back in town.