A mild month for weather but a late storm sees The first berries torn from the rowan trees Their bodies stain the stone in Waterlight Park Small deaths, unmourned by the gathering dark
And as you might suppose, my mind finds a start Turn on the radio and dreams they drift apart Here in London Town, where Every child's a Herod to himself and others I hear a lonesome whistle
I watch and the only answer made Comes from a black-suited cannonade Pounding the corpses with a stern expression Shaming the loud blood's indiscretion
And as you might suppose, I'm that bleeding heart I believe in something more than you can fix upon a chart Here in London Town, where Every man's a Judas to himself and others I hear a lonesome whistle
But there is another answer, now I see In the up-thrown arms of the rowan trees Crazed with dismay by what the storm has done Cradling in shadow their fallen sons
And as you might suppose, I've a broken heart And as you might suppose, I've a broken heart And as you might suppose, I've a broken heart And as you might suppose, I've a broken heartTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
