It calls the Victorian lady back from the dead She rises from the cold ground and enters through the door as a draught to you and I If you and I could ever, ever go back We'd see her on the other side of a dusty frame, Running through the field, pale of salt water in hand
She races through closed and open shutters In search of lovely little ones, the ones your heart's with, the ones you love They asked for her to come They asked the man in the bright red suit and wrote it on their list, too But never would he hear them through all the snow
And despite being hung on the walls of all the ocean liners The Queen herself could not get the water to put the fire out
And when I call you won't come running Now a dark spectre to me No returning in white chariot Hot frozen teardrops fall and melt into the ink
Oh, the dust is falling heavy out on the hills My portrait is my window sill We'd kiss but we are made of clay You loved me most when love was young Now even the setting sun we dance beneath is made of clay The dust falls heavy out on the hills My portrait is my window sill
And out come the little ones with burning, flailing arms Take up your drumsticks and batter my heart Like an antique tom
I won't call, you won't come running Now a dark spectre to me No returning in white chariot Hot frozen teardrops fall and melt into the inkTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
