| She’s given it some thought
|
| And it’s giving her some grief
|
| Could it be she’s bored beyond belief?
|
| By the time she says goodbye
|
| She’s looking somewhere else
|
| Stifling a sigh and gritting teeth
|
| At the open door she pauses
|
| It’s grey and wet and warm
|
| Before the pending storm
|
| Every now and then she misses horses
|
| We’re too young for regrets
|
| This is the closest that she gets
|
| So I sleep in with the cynics
|
| While she pushes from her mind
|
| The twenty-seven minutes of the Sandringham line
|
| The suburbs sliding past
|
| Stretching to the sea
|
| Her fingers brush the glass unconsciously
|
| At the open door she pauses
|
| It’s grey and wet and warm
|
| Before the pending storm
|
| Every now and then she misses horses
|
| We’re too young for regrets
|
| Surely we’re too young for regrets
|
| I sat backwards on the train
|
| And suddenly the city was further and further in front of me |