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Hello, my chum |
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It's me and I'm banging on your door |
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It's been far too long |
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Since we set the leaves alight down on the floor |
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I've returned for a while |
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To the concrete that once claimed my knees |
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And the stones my hands owned |
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As I sent them toward windows and trees |
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Towering trees |
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Towering trees |
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There are bangers in the wheely bins |
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Laser pens shone through the glass |
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And BB after BB fired |
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From behind the wall beyond the grass |
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And though boots met my face |
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And knuckles cracked me black as coal |
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I care not for the mindless |
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Who poked fear at my sorry soul |
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My soul |
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My soul |
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And I miss the rain on the roof |
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Pitstop paths and whistling streams |
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I miss the cold stream chips |
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The red subbuteo team painted green |
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Built on back fields, |
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It seemed a thorn in my child side |
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Instead became a grit-soaked playground |
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Where the propers and the poor collide |
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Oh, it might sound dull |
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But dull's sometimes all we have |
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Yeah, it might sound dull |
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But dull's all we ever have |
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Sometimes I talk with the meter |
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Of a bingo caller's east-end drawl |
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Who cares; we're all just trying to float |
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While everything seems set to fall |
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So hard |
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So hard |
