Four Seasons
When I come home it will be with, someone else's blood on my shirt
Another county's dirt on the knees of my ripped jeans
And I won't wanna talk about it
What you prise from 'tween my fingers
That the devil speaks in Scottish brogue
A love life under two shadows
But you don't wanna talk about it
The bus stands still, the landscape scrolls right by
Dual carriageway and landfill line both sides
Something verdant, something blooming, something golden, something dead
Cut into uneven quarters, all four seasons in my head
And when I lay you down we'll be beneath
Duck feather duvet, new clean cotton sheets
(I love you more than ever)
As you bathe the stains from my skin only dirt is washed away
'Cause all the bad lays far more deep
Please, I don't wanna talk about it
