There was a wayward lad
Stepped out one morning
The ground to be his bed
The sky his awning
Neon neon neon
A blue neon lamp in a midnight country field
Can't surround so you lean on lean on
So much your heart's become fond of this
Oh these three wrong words
Oh let me whisper like the rubbing hands
Of tourists in Verona

I just want to love you in my own language

Well that smell of sex
Good like burning wood
The wayward lad laid clean
To two busty girls from Hornsea
Who left a note I'm blanking
Girls from a port say Hi (hi)
The road erodes at five feet per year
Around England's east coastline
Was this your first time
Love is just a button we press
Last night by the campfire
Oh these three wrong words
Oh that we whisper like the rubbing hands
Of tourists in Verona

I just want to love you in my own language