All the awnings spilled their guts of tea-stained leaves
Upon the morning's quaking hands and creaking knees
A patina of better times upon my face
Your voice still wanders through the halls of this old place
And I don't ever want to hear those words again
Watch the old days grow and grow and then turn away
And now the house will not be home on rainy days
I feel the weeds climb up my legs to strangle me
supported by 4 fans who also own “Stone Tape Theory Song”
We should all be making pilgrimages to Scarborough to conduct candle light vigils to 4 track ghosts, failed bands and the bones of the odd Bronte or two. Like Britpop never happened, thank God. Did William Blake go to the seaside to take the waters? I don't know, but if he did he was writing these songs. Vital pop dust and hidden shoe box tape operas. AB
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