| Meet me on the wastelands — later this day
|
| We’ll sit and talk and hold hands maybe
|
| For there’s not much else to do in this drab and colourless
|
| Place
|
| We’ll sit amongst the rubber tyres
|
| Amongst the discarded bric-a-brac
|
| People have no use for — amongst the smouldering embers of
|
| Yesterday
|
| And when or if the sun shines
|
| Lighting our once beautiful features
|
| We’ll smile but only for seconds
|
| For to be caught smiling is to acknowledge life
|
| A brave but useless show of compassion
|
| And that is forbidden in this drab and colourless world
|
| Meet me on the wastelands — the ones behind
|
| The old houses — the ones — left standing pre-war —
|
| The ones overshadowed by the monolith monstrosities —
|
| Councils call homes
|
| And there amongst the shit — the dirty linen
|
| The holy Coca-Cola tins — the punctured footballs
|
| The ragged dolls — the rusting bicycles
|
| We’ll sit and probably hold hands
|
| And watch the rain fall (watch it, watch it)
|
| Tumble and fall (tumble and falling)
|
| Like our lives (like our lives)
|
| Just like our lives
|
| We’ll talk about the old days
|
| When the wasteland was release when we could play
|
| And think — without feeling guilty —
|
| Meet me later but we’ll have to hold hands
|
| Tumble and fall (tumble and falling)
|
| Like our lives (like our lives)
|
| Exactly like our lives |