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take to spring streets like a tribute band
for the sounds of summer and the ice cream vans
leave your hat on the rack and get old outside
belt round your head as you walk on dreams
theyve got legs of their own and now youve got to leave
electricity waits in your bicycle wheeels

we were old when this began and now the sun can sink,
reading books cos our pens are out of ink

nothing sounds better than a made up sorry
(and nothing sounds worse than singing it to you)
hummin on the phone while you play atari
your parents think it's good for a verse or two,
but then they fall asleep

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