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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.
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 coloursfrom countless corners of continents.
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.
My twin brother lives across the street,
once in a while, we meet to eat,
he listens to me, lets me talk,
doesn't complain and doesn't baulk,
My Gran was a Caribbean ladyAs Caribbean as could beShe came across to visit usIn Shoreham by the sea.
Nobody knows what Jonjo knows. Nobody knows but he,So Jonjo took me for a walk and showed his world to me.
The night was as dark as an ink well,For the moon had gone visiting elsewhere,But by the scuffling sounds around me,I knew there was someone there.