Trapped under the dance floor lights, backstage innocence stutters and dies as Lisa trips on this claptrap hood rat’s stone-hearted lies.
Mischief in their eyes, security offers a word to the wise, but the spirited city cat’s doing just fine, scratching at the underside.
Goodbye to your mother’s eyes, goodbye to your father’s desires as faith resigns to deny your flight into the night’s firing line.
Ah, your conscience starts to sound. Ooh, the rain keeps falling down.
Sunday service starts early in New Cross. Snake bite stains that scar in the wash.
The boy in the corner is hunched over, throwing his lungs up and left to rot.
Little Lisa, the Lee kids miss her since she moved up town with her West End fella and promised the park boy she’d always remember that summer of first love.
Ah, your conscience starts to sound. Ooh, the rain keeps falling down.
Rust on the shoulders of school sweethearts looking older. They don’t mind the park boy picking at the raindrops, picking at the bottle tops now.
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