A tiny little island
Made of unusual interesting people
All milling around
Doing pretty much nothing
The beach is completely deserted
Why is a beach deserted
The streets empty as space
What a place this is
It’s warm yet cool
And the shops sell towels
Which is funny
Cause nobody is on the beach
An ice cream parlour
Just near the sea
Is nice not for the ice cream
But because the girl is flirting
I wander into a music shop
And buy some tapes
It’s not like home
Because it’s quiet
What a place this is
But I have to go home
Why oh why
Do I have to go home

Pencil, rubber, ruler and pen
Across the grass
And we’re here again

Teachers, preachers and crazy creatures
Ageing buildings
With crooked features

Gym, showers and trampoline
The smell of coffee
And nicotine

Ties, blazers, bags and shoes
A gas explosion
Making the news

Smart, dumb, bully or fool
Mushed together
Make a school

Pitter-a-patter
I hear it scatter
Rain in my brain
Poured down from a cloud
Revealing its presence
Nice and loud
I toss in my bed
Thinking about tomorrow
About it hitting my head
When will it stop
And will I eventually hear
The final rain drop
Pitter-a-patter
The liquid matter
As rain comes down again

I watch my wife swim
As she cuts through water like a knife
And remember my privets need a trim
She’s done breast stroke all her life
A champion in the blue
But a disaster in the household
I guess it’s something Ive always knew
If truth be told
Watching her frolic in the water
Doing length after length after length
I realise family ignorance
Is possibly her biggest strength
She smiles at the young men
Don’t recall her smiling at me
I just take her at nine thirty in the morning
And pick up her up at twenty past three
Today it’s all going to change
Cause today I’m going for broke
Whilst I arrange our divorce
She’ll carry on doing the breast stroke

What shall I write
What shall I say
My minds gone blank
Just walked away

Maybe it’s tiredness
Maybe I’m bored
I’ll just hang around
Till my head is cured

Let’s start with A
Let’s start with The
The magic might start
Between P and B

What shall I write
What shall I say
My words have left me
They’ve just walked away

Just a quick puff
And I don’t know why
I know it can **** me
I know I can die
The thin slender stick
Burning in my fingers
Creates an odour
That sticks and lingers
I watch its orange glow
Smouldering in my hand
It’s give a buzz like nothing else
Im like Columbus finding land
I know it a filthy habit
Addiction unforeseen
But god it gives me something
This thing called nicotine

Finally he opens the window
After hours of sun
I’m perspiring for fun
My clothes feel like my skin
We’re sardines in a tin
On this coach heading for Rome

Finally he opens the window
Under a sunroof closed on top
Our souls will possibly drop
On this hottest day of the year
Our suits it would appear
Have become blankets

Finally he opens the window
I think he’s having fun
As he’s killing us in the sun
Wearing his shirt and shorts
To a female he cavorts
While us mortals in seats do perish

Finally he opens the window
Now comes the disgrace
When his mouth on his moustached face
Puffs on a large cigar
It’s a punishment gone too far
A deed which is clearly illegal

Finally he opens the window
As our luggage slams on the floor
When he casually closes the door
And he’s choked us half to death
Leaving our bodies pretty much bereft
Of any life