There goes the snow, washed away by the rain there goes my confidence my fortune and my fame. There goes your man, struck down by the plague there I go singing 'bout the time of day again. The homestead is a headlock in a coat of arms, to the words that you say but you never deliver. You face up to the potluck but the beat goes on cos the voice in your head only whispers. What makes you sure, and who's to say that you can turn the key and lock your shame away. Some favour pity, it's a pity they do
it's a shame the foothold seems to keep on falling through
Written by: Benedict Nightingale, Louise Katja Rackin, Morgan Lloyd-Mathews, Samuel Stacpoole
