In Liverpool

in liverpool on sunday, the light is pale and thin like you no traffic on the avenue no sound, down in this part of town he's crazy, he's throwing himself except for the boy in the belfry, down from the top of the tower like an unchback in heaven he is ringing the bells in the church for the last half an hour or someone that he knows he can't have now and if he isn't, i certainly am. he sound's like he's missing something if you lie on the ground, in somebody's arms homesick for a clock,that told the same time sometimes you made nosense to me you'll probably swallow some of their history and the boy in the belfry he's crazy,he's throwing himself like an unchback in heaven,he's ringing the bells in the church he sound like he's missing something down from the top of the tower, or someone that he knows he can't have now and if he isn't i certainly am. for the last half an hour i'll be the girl who sing for my supper you'll be the monk whose forehead is high he'll be the man who's already working in liverpool on sunday no reasons to even remember you now spreading a memory all trough the sky except for the boy in the belfry...