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 it
Let me blow up the balloon
Let me do it, let me do it
Let me go to the moon

One moment they were there and we were having fun
Now they've disappeared, every single one.
I don't know where to go and I'm feeling rather scared

I went to the shop
to get me a carrot
Oh dear!
They gave me a parrot.

Oh dear!
Look what I got
Do 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 book
and a hand fell out.
I turned a page
and heard a shout:
'I'm lost in a wood;
my mother's no good.'
I couldn't bear to look

Hand on the bridge
feel the rhythm of the train.

Hand on the window
feel the rhythm of the rain.

Hand on your throat
feel the rhythm of your talk.