The Lake District

(álbum: 100 Acres Of Sycamore - 2011)

From the banister I can see you
Cough and blast rainbows
27 summers press against the powder room windows
On returning eyes are learning the language of your wrists
You twist them towards the chandeliers and say 'who will be my witness? '

On a beaded rug on Jerusalem Hill watching the trawlers roll in
Let's start at the beginning, the drunk shouts who your tailor on the preference
Of a power failure slashing out its darkness
The steeple riggers round the spire scramble
For holy work lights on great hooks hanging
You straighten your quiff and mimic a stiff
The jury's back and it's a crushing blow
To those who wish you ill and woe

You are the Lake District
You don't need to speak
Writes in the air and chalk
Like sub titles walk across a foreign film screen

From the landing I can hear your hay bale laughter singing
It breaks the white horse hearts, of all those assembling
To be an ornament that sparkles
It's clear those here would kill
But there's nowhere to hide if you become a city on the hill

On a beated road on Jerusalem hill, watching the trolleys roll in
Let's start at the beginning, in a dingy parlour by lanterns swinging
But the ancient caverns of your eyes, welling
The tale of Russian head scarf, landing
On your collar bone from your blouse, protruding
You tighten your belt so it's closer felt
The jury's back and it's a crushing blow
For those who wish your ill and woe

You are the Lake District
Marry me
In a registry
Like a foreign film scene

Let others publish our thoughts
Take my hand and we will waltz
Below the cathedral vaults
Spinning like a foreign film reel