Pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat went the rain on the panes.
And the oh so grey sky was just trails of countless planes.
And those planes brought people past cities, past tiny lanes,
people happier than those on my street.
On the red postbox, was the peeling paint.
And the numbers on the doors were never straight.
And on many houses was a rusty gate,
that's a reality on my street.
Cats prowled the street like lions, a sweet thing I guess,
But even sweet things end in sorrow and distress:
A bird with no guts, a dead kitten, nothing less:
even good things end sadly on my street.
A pile of *******, all mouldy and rank,
An Amazon bill, one side tea-stained, one side blank,
An old can, crumpled, pierced, already drunk,
that's what it looks like on my street.