| Getting hung up all day on smiles
|
| Walking down portobello road for miles
|
| Greeting strangers in indian boots,
|
| yellow ties and old brown suits
|
| Growing old is my only danger
|
| Cuckoo clocks, and plastic socks
|
| Lampshades of old antique leather
|
| Nothing looks weird, not even a beard
|
| or the boots made out of feathers
|
| I’ll keep walking miles til I feel
|
| a broom beneath my feet
|
| or the hawking eyes of an old stuffed bull across the street
|
| Nothings the same if you see it again
|
| it’ll be broken down to litter
|
| Oh, and the clothes
|
| everyone know that that dress will never fit her
|
| Getting hung up all day on smiles
|
| Walking down portobello road for miles
|
| Greeting strangers in indian boots,
|
| yellow ties and old brown suits
|
| Growing old is my only danger
|
| Cuckoo clocks, and plastic socks
|
| Lampshades of old antique leather
|
| Nothing looks weird, not even a beard
|
| or the boots made out of feathers
|
| I’ll keep walking miles til I feel
|
| a broom beneath my feet
|
| or the hawking eyes of an old stuffed bull across the street
|
| Nothing’s the same if you see it again
|
| It’ll be broken down to litter
|
| Oh, and the clothes
|
| everyone know that that dress will never fit her
|
| Getting hung up all day on smiles
|
| Walking down portobello road for miles
|
| Greeting strangers in indian boots,
|
| yellow ties and old brown suits
|
| Growing old is my only danger |