Things come back to me,
about the way we were
Baby can't you see,
I might be going spare
The dishes in the sink
are piled 2 foot high
My sheets really stink,
and still there's no reply

My sick rose nobody knows
My sick rose nobody knows

The garden is a place
of dying flowers
Left to an embrace
of wilted powers
People leaving church
a little closer now
A dim-witted search
in a summer shower

High art whispers loud
about it's flaking grace
One, two, three the bourgeoisie
never lose their face
So listen one more time
I'll burn without a trace