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Of larks, trains, windows and brooksThe poet he writes it all down in his bookWon’t meet your eye but he wants you to lookIn Hull or hell he liesLambs in the winter and swans in the springChildren at play they’re like birds on the wingThe poet he writes that the sun seems to swingIn Hull or hell he liesAway from the world and away from the pageHidden in corners the gathering of ageRetreats to the wings where he once held the stageIn Hull or hell he liesThe dirt and the filth that we don’t get to seeThat’s eating his language awayThis yellow-eyed nastiness hides from the light of the dayResenting the everyday growing so oldWhere winter once pictured as flowers in foldWhen frosty and bitter and weathered and coldIn Hull or hell he liesHis housemaid she tried but the dirt grew so fastThe darkest of colours he nailed to the mastStuck in his ways like he’s stuck in the past Aus Songtexte Mania