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In a room painted beige and blue |
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Some fifty-odd years ago |
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I'm lying here, recalling |
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Holding her tight at a fairground show |
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She blessed me with fire and candyfloss |
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And her sweet-salted lips |
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It never tasted like this |
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It never tasted like this |
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In a hollow tree of childhood games |
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Of hopes and promises missed |
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She promised me things |
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I never could understand |
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It was a pleasure and a privilege |
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Then as it is now |
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It was a pleasure and a privilege |
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But I'll guess you'll never know |
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On a visit on a whim |
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There was nobody home |
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Save an old lady |
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That didn't speak my language |
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So my scrawled note |
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Stayed in my tatty hand |
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"It was a pleasure |
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It was a privilege" |
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Too many letters don't get sent |
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Too many letters don't get read |
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There's too many letters that don't get sent |
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There's too many letters |
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Too many letters don't get sent |
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Too many letters don't get read |
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There's too many letters under my bed |
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There's too many letters |
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Too many letters don't get sent |
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Too many letters don't get read |
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There's too many letters that don't get sent |
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There's too many letters |
