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I shout all my obscenities from steeples, |
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But please don't label me a madman, |
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I'm off to see the Bootleg Beatles |
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As the bootleg Mark Chapman, |
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Cafe bars, idiots and pidgeons, |
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There's far too many in this town, |
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So me and the ombudsman, |
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Are gonna do what we can, |
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When the evening sun goes down. |
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Yes, some of my pullovers are roll-necked, |
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It kind of breaks up the ennui, |
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But your experimental side project, |
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Must have put 10 years on me, |
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Opposite the Bannister and Shamrock, |
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Which used to be the Rose and Crown, |
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I like to play Pat Boone |
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On the county bassoon, |
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When the evening sun goes dow-ow-ow-own, |
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When the evening sun goes down. |
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When the evening sun- |
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When the evening sun- |
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When the evening sun goes down. |
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When the evening sun- |
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When the evening sun- |
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When the evening sun goes down. |
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There are questions in corners of my mind that lurk, |
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Like "How do the road gritters get to work?" |
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Answer me that, and you could win a cruise, |
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And here's Judy Tsuke to take us up to the news. |
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Are these my ultimate pyjamas? |
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Is this my final dressing gown? |
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I'm sending on this rhyme, |
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Deep in injury time, |
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When the evening sun goes down, |
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When the evening sun goes down, |
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When the evening sun goes down. |
