| The distant echo —
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| Of faraway voices boarding faraway trains
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| To take them home to
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| The ones that they love and who love them forever
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| The glazed, dirty steps — repeat my own and reflect my thoughts
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| Cold and uninviting, partially naked
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| Except for toffee wrapers and this morning’s papers
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| Mr. Jones got run down
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| Headlines of death and sorrow — they tell of tomorrow
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| Madmen on the rampage
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| And I’m down in the tube station at midnight
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| I fumble for change — and pull out the Queen
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| Smiling, beguiling
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| I put in the money and pull out a plum
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| Behind me
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| Whispers in the shadows — gruff blazing voices
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| Hating, waiting
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| «Hey boy» they shout «have you got any money?»
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| And I said «I've a little money and a take away curry
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| I’m on my way home to my wife
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| She’ll be lining up the cutlery
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| You know she’s expecting me
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| Polishing the glasses and pulling out the cork»
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| And I’m down in the tube station at midnight
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| I first felt a fist, and then a kick
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| I could now smell their breath
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| They smelt of pubs and Wormwood Scrubs
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| And too many right wing meetings
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| My life swam around me
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| It took a look and drowned me in its own existence
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| The smell of brown leather
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| It blended in with the weather
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| It filled my eyes, ears, nose and mouth
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| It blocked all my senses
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| Couldn’t see, hear, speak any longer
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| And I’m down in the tube station at midnight
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| I said I was down in the tube station at midnight
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| The last thing that I saw
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| As I lay there on the floor
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| Was «Jesus Saves» painted by an atheist nutter
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| And a British Rail poster read «Have an Awayday — a cheap holiday — Do it today!
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| I glanced back on my life
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| And thought about my wife
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| Cause they took the keys — and she’ll think it’s me
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| And I’m down in the tube station at midnight
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| The wine will be flat and the curry’s gone cold
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| I’m down in the tube station at midnight
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| Don’t want to go down in a tube station at midnight |