December 17th her wish is to be free
Reading all alone at the Sam Smiths in the City
Imagines dancing the Sir Roger De Coverley
She sees the future, though far away, shall come to be
Is it hard to step from off the planned trajectory?
So from the cubes in smoke she must go well away and see
So she moves to the country
She longs for a garden and community
Simple surnames, provincial people who
Won't talk to her judgingly
Down Kingsland Road your peers charade in bohemian bourgeois tatters
Has it struck you finally what it is that really matters?
Did you wake up Sunday head in hand held with regret?
You pledge to change your ways, come Monday you forget
Does your circle of friends feed you lines or connect your dots?
Are you searching for an escape, or a plot?
Do you want to cultivate and watch the garden grow?
Your plot is cyclical, your life is not for show
In the city the galas and face-time – didn't you want to carve out a name?
Well that's not what she's after she's young and she
Wants to run free and keep sane
