| Angora jumpers on the 10:15
|
| Off to Brighton for the day
|
| She’s gently swaying through her magazine
|
| Victoria is on her way
|
| Oranges spinning in a Wimpy bar
|
| Although she knows it’s not the same
|
| She sits and wonders where it all went wrong
|
| Wraps her coat around her pain
|
| Oh, the magic in her garden never grows
|
| The places and the faces that she used to know
|
| Oh, the magic in her garden never grows
|
| The places and the faces that she used to know
|
| That she used to know
|
| Cherry vanilla flavored ice cream cone
|
| Lingers softly on her lips
|
| The memory of a guilty phone call home
|
| The wetness of a teenage kiss
|
| Slingbacks clicking on the wooden boards
|
| As she steps lightly on the pier
|
| She sits and watches as the sun goes down
|
| She’ll be back this time next year
|
| Oh, the magic in her garden never grows
|
| The places and the faces that she used to know
|
| Oh, the magic in her garden never grows
|
| The places and the faces that she used to know
|
| That she used to know
|
| All the scooters, tonic suits and midnight features
|
| Shiny chrome, shiny lights and shiny people
|
| All the blues and all the tunes of pretty faces
|
| All the kings and queens and all the aces
|
| All the Sundays and the Mondays spending wages
|
| Now growing in the gardens of suburban places |