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He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher.He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher.His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.
Fire under footfall.Fire over skies.
Fire on a matchstick.Fire in my eyes.
Fire holding hunger.Fire seeking wood.
Fire hiding danger.Fire feeling good.
Ah sey, ah want it short,Short back an' side,Ah tell him man, ah tell himWhen ah teck him aside,Ah sey, ah want a haircutAh can wear with pride,
Once everything was bigand you were small,but year after year your shadow crept up the wall and you grew tall.
Let me do it, let me do itLet me blow up the balloonLet me do it, let me do itLet me go to the moon
One moment they were there and we were having funNow they've disappeared, every single one.I don't know where to go and I'm feeling rather scared
Miss Flotsam was my reception teacher.She had travelled the world.Brown hair turned goldenunder distant suns,clothes carrying colours
Now the day is over,you're lying in your bedand cares are spinning endlesslyaround your weary head.Remember that the moon you seeis also shining down on me.
I went to the shopto get me a carrotOh dear!They gave me a parrot.
Oh dear!Look what I gotDo I want that?No I do NOT!
All you see is outside me: my painted smile,the rosy-posy shell, the fluttery eyes.A butter-won’t-melt-in-my-mouth-type me