|
Words and music by |
|
Roddy Frame |
|
I feel the magic that our time has traced, |
|
And make a point of it in every place. |
|
But every place deserves a curse or two, |
|
For making me so far away from you. |
|
I saw some pictures of the world at war, |
|
I couldn't suss what all the fuss was for, |
|
I wear a picture of you wearing black, |
|
And kissing me behind the butler's back. |
|
Sometimes |
|
I get down, |
|
But it's not you that gets me down, |
|
It's just the sense of the impossible, |
|
Gratuitously handed down. |
|
Chorus: But oh no, not you, don't wipe your eyes over lies, |
|
Just let them shine their blue, |
|
On every whisper that welcomes the inconceivable, |
|
And the birth of the true. |
|
I'd sack the world and make a second start, |
|
I'd sack my head until |
|
I found my heart, |
|
I'd fill the distance with a red parade, |
|
And burn the banks down while the bugles played. |
|
Sometimes |
|
I get down, |
|
But it's not you that gets me down, |
|
It's just the sense of the impossible, |
|
Gratuitously handed down. |
|
Chorus |
