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Peckham to King’s Cross
©2002 Gibbens/Weston


The sun’s going down
On this windy great town full of souls.
I put my hands in
But there’s nothing in ’em but holes…

Try crossing a desert with nothing to drink,
Seems easier than crossing the river
Without any change in your pockets to chink.
I hear tell that Texas
Is a thousand miles across.
Tonight that doesn’t seem as far
As Peckham to King’s Cross.

There’s mountains of buildings
And canyons of streets
And great herds of people
On their locust feet.
From Heathrow and Gatwick,
Ghost riders take flight
But if I had a pony
I’d be with the gang tonight.

I hear tell that Texas
Is a thousand miles across.
Tonight that doesn’t seem as far
As Peckham to King’s Cross.

Round Tavistock Square,
In the flatlet you share
With the typist from old County Down,
I know you’re there,
Dyeing your hair,
Dressing up to go on the town.

There’s coppers and shoppers
And old men with no teeth
And there’s lovers on benches
From here to the Heath.
I’d like to be where the songs fill the air
And the beer and the cigarettes roam,
But if I get to you
Or if you get to me
I’d far rather stay at home.

Try crossing a desert with nothing to drink,
Seems easier than crossing the river
Without any change in your pockets to chink.
I hear tell that Texas
Is a thousand miles across.
Tonight that doesn’t seem as far
As Peckham to King’s Cross.

 

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