Somewhere near central London
|
I imagine not so far from Trafalgar Square
|
and the lions
|
There lives an older gentleman
|
who teas with BBC and Britain's ghost
|
His lady companion by his side.
|
Oh yes, I see him now.
|
|
And cross the deep blue sea
|
I cannot smell
|
Inside a symphony
|
the "Pastorale".
|
|
So besides the black rats swimming
|
I watch the English evening skies
|
reflect my heart
|
As I walk behind him,
|
Looking for what's been lost
|
Like looking over all the trees
|
of Hampstead Heath
|
now before us in the twilight.
|
No, I can't bear it now.
|
|
And cross the deep blue sea
|
I cannot smell
|
Inside a symphony
|
the "Pastorale".
|
|
A jacket and hat...the only trace...
|
Two gold rings...
|
But never fades.
|
|
A jacket and hat...the only trace
|
Two gold rings...
|
But never fades...
|
A face....
|
|
-----------------
|
Two Gold Rings
|
Rufus Wainwright |