Falling stars
Crossed fingers
And a penny in the well...

A solitary man
Looked in the mirror, whispered:
"It is hell...
To always be alone...
To hide in shadows
Yet that spiteful sun
Should turn me yellow...
Drive me mad..."

Cue tympanies
A fanfare...
We wore black bands on our arms...
The army fired once
The Queen was looking very, very sad

But now our corridors...
They're haunted
And we're ducking pots and pans
We wish to God he'd found the answer...
But no, no flowers ever can

Placate anomalies
Outsiders-ever desperate to connect...
Yes, we are all but islands...
But on some
The sun...
It never sets...