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(difford/tilbrook) |
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A black and white photograph |
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Of me up the garden path |
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Wrapped up in my football scarf |
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It sits here in my hand |
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And there mother smothered me |
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And how she would mother me |
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She knew how to suffer me |
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Like all mothers can |
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Now she is everywhere |
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The comb that runs through my hair |
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My posture on a chair |
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But that's not who i am |
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He ran from the arguments |
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And sat on the garden fence |
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And lived in the passing tense |
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That fell from her lips |
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He tended the house so well |
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And each time she rang his bell |
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He'd climb back from where he fell |
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And gathered his wits |
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Now i fear the mold is mine |
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A vibration shakes my spine |
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As i walk the crooked line |
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Reality hits |
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So let me walk free from you |
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You know that you want me to |
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Let me try something new |
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Let me walk away |
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If it's not one thing it's your mother |
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How i love her |
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How i love her |
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How i love her |
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But it's not so easy to say |
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Please won't you let me walk away |
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Let me walk away |
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Let me walk away |
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So let me walk on my own |
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And finish my ice cream cone |
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If we are to make it home |
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Then all will be well |
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Look see i'm a father now |
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I'm raising my own eyebrow |
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And being in my own row |
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And making life hell |
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This is me, see here i am |
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Doing the best that i can |
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This life has a subtle plan |
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But you couldn't tell |
