Daisies don't grow on Abbey Road .

There is no such thing as London fog .

No octopus's garden in the rain .
Nor in the shade .

No yellow bus on a magical mystery tour .

She's so heavy .
She's so bad
She removes the screen before coming in through the bathroom window

Standing in my English tan
Waiting . . .
Here comes the sun .

She never gave me
any more than the twice she'd take

Now you have no where to go

One sweet dream
One tear away
Sleeps in a hole in the road
Suffers like a Tuesday on the phone to me

She could steal
But could not rob .

No there is no home to go back to
No smiles to away the cry
No more lullabies
or invitations

And in the end the love you take is equal to the love you make .