| I’m imagining rippling fingers on keys
|
| Miming it wild on a cold stone table
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| Picturing and wishing for home and jiggling my knees
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| Send an urgent cable
|
| Dickhead’s done a runner and he’s wondering if anyone cares
|
| Is the landing light on
|
| Back to the pebbles that mum’s eggs hatched in
|
| Give me her perfume, give me her prayers and advice
|
| Hands up if you’ve never seen the sea
|
| I’m from a land with an island status
|
| Makes us think that everyone hates us, maybe darling they do
|
| But they haven’t met you
|
| They only know the villains at the tiller
|
| And they gambled the farm on a headline, Jesus
|
| Getting harder to see what they’re doing ‘til it’s done
|
| And they’re never gonna make an arrest on Fleet Street
|
| Yes and I’m given to believing in love
|
| I’ve written the word in my blood
|
| And I perch on a shelf of the K2
|
| Made of the believers that love
|
| Opens the fist just enough for a hand
|
| To slip into the hand
|
| I’ve been asleep in the woods with a mother to be
|
| Planning on a static caravan in the Andes
|
| Making a break with the steel magpie on the rise
|
| Defeat in our time
|
| Or do we meet on the street again due to the few?
|
| Batter it out and refresh vendetta
|
| Better surely to pause, consider the path
|
| It’s full of blood, snot and teeth and the glory of no one
|
| Hands up if you’ve never seen the sea
|
| We’re from a place with an island status
|
| Queuing round the corner for a pencil and paper again
|
| Come the virus of virii
|
| God send us to a digital end
|
| With following strangers and swiping at friends
|
| I’ll send you a postcard, see you in Hull
|
| In a sweater made of Atacama llama wool
|
| Yes and I’m given to believing in love
|
| I’ve written the word in my blood
|
| And I perch on a shelf of the K2
|
| Made of the believers that love
|
| Opens the fist just enough for a hand
|
| To slip into the hand
|
| Yes and I’m given to believing in love
|
| I’ve written the word in my blood
|
| I’ve seen it make a heaven of
|
| Backstreet, bedsit and bomb site living room love
|
| Opens the fist just enough for a hand
|
| To slip into the hand
|
| To slip into the hand |