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I know where the summer goes |
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When you're having no fun |
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When you're under the thumb |
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I know where the summer dwells |
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If your underarm smells |
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And your kitchen looks like hell |
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I know where the summer goes |
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If you're scraping a pot, and your head is hot |
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Put your head down, put your thumbs up girl |
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With the smell of hot desk |
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And the glitter of your step |
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He was right, he's the upcoming guru of the city |
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No one told the city councillors |
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I know, you can tell me again |
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I've got my mobile phone |
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Full of silicon chips |
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No one likes a smart arse |
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But I've seen a pattern emerge |
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I will race you up the hill |
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Where the boy who made records out of postcard messages |
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And flowering cherries rain on kids like you |
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Look twice at the kid with the crimped |
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And overheated hair |
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They ran a book on his looks |
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Odds on was the noble pose and |
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The denim hard riff of the Irish Troubadour |
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But the boy came from nowhere to |
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Steal the hearts of lassies in the lavvies of the club tonight |
