| On the museum island,
|
| At the end of the day,
|
| we had travelled for miles,
|
| We had come to escape
|
| All the space on the page
|
| That the newspapers gave
|
| Up to pictures and pictures of us.
|
| As we followed the coffin
|
| Of your famous father.
|
| Adjusting our skirts
|
| As we turned at the altar.
|
| And within every word
|
| That they’d written, was spelt out
|
| You’d taken your last ever bus.
|
| So skimming the surface
|
| Of all your new money,
|
| we skimmed the surface
|
| Of the air as we flew.
|
| we were out of the rain,
|
| we were thinking that maybe
|
| Berlin was the place to renew.
|
| well you know what they say
|
| About terrible hate —
|
| It will breed something good
|
| When it’s through.
|
| At the end of the day,
|
| By the Potsdamer Place
|
| And the Brandenburg Gate,
|
| It was you.
|
| You have hardened completely
|
| By the end of this story,
|
| You have learned to look clear
|
| Through the flash of a bulb,
|
| When you hear your own name
|
| From the back of a crowd,
|
| You just straighten your gaze,
|
| No you don’t turn around.
|
| Oh but there was a time
|
| At the end of the day,
|
| We were both stood in line
|
| At the museum display,
|
| And you outshone the light
|
| Under which you were bathed,
|
| You could outshine the sky
|
| With the look that you gave,
|
| Oh so don’t be afraid
|
| To look back and wave,
|
| Now that waving is all that you do.
|
| At the end of the day,
|
| By the Potsdamer Place,
|
| I am waving back at you.
|
| So don’t be afraid
|
| To look back and wave,
|
| Now that waving is all that you do.
|
| At the end of the day,
|
| By the Potsdamer Place,
|
| I am waving back at you. |