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Piccadilly Circus in the bed of night |
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Just passing time beneath the lights |
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Up in town and all alone |
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Got no business so minds his own |
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The hotel room is lonely and cold |
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He might as well go for a stroll |
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Idly looking in a hi-fi shop |
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Footsteps, a chuckle and one hard slap |
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And they didn't even see his face |
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See him flinch or hear him groan |
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They didn't even see his eyes |
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One mean blow and on they ran |
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He put his fingers to his side |
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And felt his flesh was open wide |
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He felt the rent the blow had made |
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For the hand that fell had held a blade |
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And they didn't even see his face |
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See him stumble, hear his cry |
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They didn't even see his eyes |
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Just lashed out in passing by |
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What can it mean? |
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Who can makes some sense of that? |
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Did it mean a thing to them? |
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What can make a mind like that? |
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Though forty stitches helped him over |
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Who can live life over his shoulder? |
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He tried to put it in his past |
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And flew safe home back to Belfast |
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And they didn't see his face |
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See him stagger watch him fall |
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They didn't even see his eyes |
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They never knew him at all |
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Never knew him, tried to kill him |
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Never knew him, tried to kill him |
