| The streets I left were always wet and grey
|
| To half imagined west I made my way
|
| To where the kettle always sings
|
| And walking down the lane
|
| Your long hair swings
|
| You are the girl that waves at trains
|
| In the cool September rain
|
| You know I’ll never live up to my dreams
|
| The ones I spend with you
|
| The way you wave a flower blooms
|
| I won’t pester or presume
|
| I love you through the diesel fumes
|
| I want to make my way with you
|
| I had to leave the city
|
| I was stifled by success
|
| When the blue make money
|
| They always make a mess
|
| So give me wine and soda bread
|
| Moonshine on the field
|
| And on your bed
|
| You are the girl that waves at trains
|
| In the cool September rain
|
| You know I’ll never live up to my dreams
|
| The ones I spend with you
|
| The way you wave a flower blooms
|
| I won’t pester or presume
|
| I love you through the diesel fumes
|
| I want to make my way with you
|
| You’re as welcome as a Christmas rose
|
| Like a shotgun in a field of crows
|
| As breathless as my fifth form prose
|
| You are the girl that waves at trains
|
| In the cool September rain
|
| You know I’ll never live up to my dreams
|
| The ones I spend with you
|
| The way you wave a flower blooms
|
| I won’t pester or presume
|
| I love you through the diesel fumes
|
| I want to make my way with you |