Arbour

Rusting in a restless heat This heavy curtained room's no place for me The king's feet and his broken speech Those were dark days in this field Coffee pressed bread basket dreams Hungry then and still it seems Oh our backs pressed up red-brick thin Wine red, chequered skin Italy you're calling me Italy you're calling me Italy you're calling Batter born it's blood in my grain The sheets were warm where we'd lain I clung to you in your bed I was far-flung in my head I was a free-wheeling racing child Graffitti yard lock in And the trees swallowed us where we sat Left us stoned on the cobbled flat Italy you're calling me Italy you're calling me Italy you're calling