Then we ate in the basement, 
and the dining room was vacant,
was the telephone laying low?

Or are we left all alone,
houses hold their stories own. 
Of transient ghosts.

Ghosts (x3)
The peopling of London, 
oceans of empty rooms.

Flex your skeleton, 
your wooden guns 
in the cemetery of storefronts,
where the floor buckled under us. 

When dead air blows you go,
keep talk cheap and know 
the seeking of secret ghosts.

Ghosts (x3)
The peopling of London, 
towers of human hearts.