Last Of The English Roses (Pete Doherty)

This time I will almost make it
This time I will feel for sure
All alone now
With no more time to fake it
For you loneliness is my cure
This time I will delve deeper
This time I will engage the pure
All alone now
With no more time to be the keeper
For you emptiness I will endure

And why wouldn’t one repeat it
Again and again and again
Why wouldn’t one
Seek out a place to keep it
The stain, the stain, the stain
Yes, why, yes, and why not why
To carry your rose beside you
Yes, why not cry, and cry, and cry
For the English Rose
Which you coloured blue

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Set The Controls For The Heart Of The Sun (Pink Floyd)

High summer in the middle of springtime
Warmth and light on daytimes for leisure
Steam trains and caravans
Ice cream parlours and window shopping
Yes there is a racecourse
And a dozen or more fishing lakes
But it is expensive parking
To look down from the top of Sutton Bank

To see a faraway panoramic horizon
To see a sky turn into more than white
Here and now then to set the controls
For the heart of the sun
To venture where no one has before
To venture where no one can again
To turn on the turntables of immensity
Towards the heart of the son

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Son Of A Preacher Man (Dusty Springfield)

Two churches
With a two-sided seat
A bicycle ride in April
To remember the features
All that birdsong
All that mown grass
Time for sheer contemplation
Thoughts way out over the reaches

Young girls and young boys
On their own out here in the country
No fears of the city
Just you and I then beside the beeches
Yet you are in spirit only
No need though for recriminations
Not for we
For we are plain-speaking creatures

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Albatross (Peter Green’s Fleetwood Mac)

The young and innocent sixteen-year-old
Stood in awe
In front of a full-size papier-mâché replica
Of a Nineteen-Thirties American automobile
Hung as it was from the students union ceiling
The main decoration
For the Molls & Gangsters Christmas ball
With live music
Courtesy of Peter Green’s Fleetwood Mac

Those steps to the balcony
Are now steps in the multi-storey car park
Which go down to the ring road
Across which was the Technical College
Where the young sixteen-year-old
Studied Electrical Engineering
Yet desperately wanted to be in Art College
To make sculptures out of papier-mâché
Or to become a refined user of China Clay

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First Cut Is The Deepest (PP Arnold)

Another Christmas Eve Saturday night break-up
Another time with nowhere at all to go
Or rather
No one now to go out with
No swirling starlights
No girls eyeing up the boys
No boys
Becoming excited between the thighs

Sat alone in the darkness
The indefatigable darkness
Lined as with lining paper
All around the lost souls
No moons and no crescents
No presents of rich perfumes
No missions and no roasting chestnuts
All is a sense of deserting the lover’s last role

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