On winter's nights, in my old room,
I'd lie awake, to watch the gloom,
Spread out, across the gardens
The silent buzz, of empty streets,
And rooftop snow, from window seats
For beating hearts that cannot sleep to ponder
Oh I was painting a picture without the words,
Of simple colours and secret worlds,
And I was casting my mind, behind the rooftops.
Getting hooked on the shadows looking through the lens,
To trace the patterns with felt tip pens
Cos I grew up with the sound, of England sleeping.
The damp would run, down the windowsill,
And through the glass, I'd feel the chill,
And look out, for long hours waiting,
In darkened rooms, I'd cut my teeth,
On morbid thoughts, that run benetah,
Those linen sheets, and rattle at my window.
