The morning paper flies,
Too quick to catch your eyes,
From nineteen stories high,
Of tiny little lives,
The moped kids are out,
Too old to walk about,
Throw coins against the wall,
Let's see how short they fall.

Do we know you?
Yeah, we know you.

The days of hearts and flowers,
Decayed by working hours,
And the chord that [bad word] the vein,
You just had to pluck again,
But pish [bad word] to shove,
For winter hats and gloves,
And you can't have the one you love,
If you only met 'em once.