You say you've got to go home. 'Cos he's sitting on his own again this evening. I know you're gonna let him bore your pants off again. Oh now, it's half past eight, you'll be late.
Oh children of the future. conceived in the toilets at Meadowhall. to be raised on the cheap cold slabs of garage floors. rolling empty cans down the stairway.
We made our way slowly down the path that led to the stream,. swaying slightly,. drunk on the sun, I suppose.. It was a real summer's day.. The air humming with heat whilst the trees beckoned us into their cool green shade..