Over tea and biscuits
With delicate conversationalists...

The boy at the sea
He always makes me ponder...

The dirt scatters on his face
as he trudges towards his grave...

When the words of our song
Were sold to her...

He was crippled
but only his body was cracked...

Her silence sang above her father's grave
As she swallowed her sorrow...

A plateau of selfish tears,
And a list about myself...

A forest full of by-gones
Shattered, shattered...

The tear breached stances
amble in self-belief...

Cruel will be the virgins,
All maidenheads afloat...

If you read so carefully,
Between the lines we've written...

I know what you've done
It's like the sound of my gun...