Oh, and my teenage prose will never be the same again
I can't write with broken hands
And I'd like to leave these old streets
I'd like to leave them for a wrapping blown away England

Somehow, in between my wasted years I found myself
at a London crossing with a suitcase
I spat on the ground, and I lost my face
How dearly fearless I felt
while realizing the Bristol sun hadn't yet hit me.

And when a man sang right into the ears
of a girl who believed she couldn't go anywhere
That one grew five hundred metres and
raised her head, and three years stumbled by.

No, I never thought Arcadia would wait
Not that the world would ever grow the same with late
cups of tea, soundless dreams, and a constant
reminder of why I haven't left yet.

However I decided to catch the railroads
And discover what a city really is worth, and wipe the
rain off the trees
It's late late November
and I am dancing with the refinement of
any fine boy. And I don't believe any longer, that I never saw it happen
They did tie my hands,
and cover my mouth, but it's pointless now.

I won't stop
And I know I have everything.