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 s*x

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

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