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It’s a late Friday night,
the street lamps are shining
up in my bedroom.
There’s a mighty big fight
between the thunder and lightning,
I wonder who will lose.

There’s a party balloon
and I ain’t been invited.
Hey, look at that moon,
there ain’t nothing like it.

All grey and gold,
down on Jubilee Road.

Can see Mr Bouvier,
in his two-bedroom basement
in his purple dungarees.
He’s grumpy and he’s grey,
always sweeping off the pavement
cigarettes and leaves.

His kid’s up in China
and his wife’s up in heaven.
Always I wave,
‘cause he’s got this expression

that he’s so alone,
down on Jubilee Road.

Oh I think tomorrow night
I will knock on his door and hear all about his life,
because I think that’s the kind of thing that I might like
when I’m old,
when I’m old.

There’s Max and there’s Maude
in the house by the station,
call them my best friends.
But he drinks like a horse,
and she don’t appreciate it,
all this money he seems to spend.

I can hear them tonight;
he can’t find no vocation.
And the neighbours they sigh,
at that new generation

just getting stoned
down on Jubilee Road.

Oh, I think in the summertime
I will call you up make everything alright,
and we’ll fill up our cups with that bitter wine,
and I’ll show you,
I’ll show you..

The mice are still here,
your wardrobe’s still empty,
And the walls are still paper thin.
And the neighbours my dear,
well I think they still hate me
for all these songs I endlessly sing.

Because it ain’t no perfect street,
I ain’t no perfect lover,
and life it is brief,
I don’t think we get no other.

Come back home,
down on Jubilee Road.

Down on Jubilee Road.

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