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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.
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
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
I opened a bookand a hand fell out.I turned a pageand heard a shout:'I'm lost in a wood;my mother's no good.'I couldn't bear to look
Hand on the bridgefeel the rhythm of the train.
Hand on the windowfeel the rhythm of the rain.
Hand on your throatfeel the rhythm of your talk.