There was a wayward lad

Stepped out one morning

The ground to be his bed



The sky his awning



Neon, neon, neon

A blue neon lamp in a midnight country field



Can't surround so you lean on, lean on

So much your heart's become fond of this



Oh, these three worn words

Oh, let me whisper like the rubbing hands

Of tourists in Verona

I just want to love you in my own language



Well, that smell of sex

Good like burning wood

The wayward lad laid clean

To two busty girls from Hornsea

Who left a note in black ink



Girls from above say "Hi" (hi)

The road erodes at five feet per year

Around England's east coastline

Was this your first time?

Love is just a button we press

Last night by the campfire



Oh, these three worn words

Oh, that we whisper like the rubbing hands

Of tourists in Verona

I just want to love you in my own language