I feel the wash, close down the street. Yet Chaplin walks feet nine fifteen. And I hear them, hear them call his name. And I see him, see him turn away.
There's no mistake. I smell that smell. It's that time of year again. I can taste the air. The clocks go back. Railway track. Something blocks the line again.
Ten minutes flat after that day at the factory. I'm drinking like a dog in the sun. I don't need to eat or sleep a wink at the weekend. Just rot my guts.