|
From the dew-soaked hedge creeps a crawly caterpillar, |
|
When the dawn begins to crack. |
|
It's all part of my autumn almanac. |
|
Breeze blows leaves of a musty[mustard?]-coloured yellow, |
|
So i sweep them in my sack. |
|
Yes, yes, yes, it's my autumn almanac. |
|
Friday evenings, people get together, |
|
Hiding from the weather. |
|
Tea and toasted, buttered currant buns |
|
Can't compensate for lack of sun, |
|
Because the summer's all gone. |
|
La-la-la-la... |
|
Oh, my poor rheumatic back |
|
Yes, yes, yes, it's my autumn almanac. |
|
La-la-la-la... |
|
Oh, my autumn almanac |
|
Yes, yes, yes, it's my autumn almanac. |
|
I like my football on a saturday, |
|
Roast beef on sundays, all right. |
|
I go to blackpool for my holidays, |
|
Sit in the open sunlight. |
|
This is my street, and i'm never gonna to leave it, |
|
And i'm always gonna to stay here |
|
If i live to be ninety-nine, |
|
'cause all the people i meet |
|
Seem to come from my street |
|
And i can't get away, |
|
Because it's calling me, (come on home) |
|
Hear it calling me, (come on home) |
|
La-la-la-la... |
|
Oh, my autumn armagnac |
|
Yes, yes, yes, it's my autumn almanac. |
|
La-la-la-la... |
|
Oh, my autumn almanac |
|
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. |
|
Bop-bop-bopm-bop-bop, whoa! |
|
Bop-bop-bopm-bop-bop, whoa! |
|
(etc.) |
