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Arlington |
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House, address no fixed abode |
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An old man in a three-piece suite sits in the road |
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Stares across the water, he sees right through the lock |
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But on and up like outstretched hands |
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His mumbled words, his fumbled words, mock |
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Further down a photo booth, a million plastic bags |
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And an old woman filling out a million baggage tags |
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But when she get thrown out, three bags at a time |
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She spies the old chap in the road to share her bags with |
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She has bags of time |
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Surrounded by his past on a short white line |
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He sits while cars pass either side takes his time |
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Trying to remember one better day |
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A while ago when people stopped to hear him say |
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Walking 'round you sometimes, hear the sunshine |
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Beating down in time with the rhythm of your shoes |
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Now she has walked enough through rainy town |
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She rests her back against his and sits down |
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She's trying to remember one better day |
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A while ago when people stopped to hear her say |
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Walking 'round you sometimes, hear the sunshine |
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Beating down in time with the rhythm of your shoes |
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Walking 'round you sometimes, hear the sunshine |
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Beating down in time with the rhythm of your shoes |
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The feeling of arriving when you've nothing left to lose |
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Walking 'round you sometimes, hear the sunshine |
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Beating down in time with the rhythm of your shoes |
