| From the dew-soaked hedge creeps a crawly caterpillar
|
| When the dawn begins to crack
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| It’s all part of my autumn almanac
|
| Breeze blows leaves of a musty-coloured yellow
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| So I sweep them in my sack
|
| Yes, yes, yes, it’s my autumn almanac
|
| Friday evenings, people get together
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| Hiding from the weather
|
| Tea and toasted, buttered currant buns
|
| Can’t compensate for lack of sun
|
| Because the summer’s all gone
|
| La-la-la-la
|
| Oh, my poor rheumatic back
|
| Yes, yes, yes, it’s my autumn almanac
|
| La-la-la-la
|
| Oh, my autumn almanac
|
| Yes, yes, yes, it’s my autumn almanac
|
| I like my football on a Saturday
|
| Roast beef on Sundays, all right
|
| I go
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| To Blackpool for my holidays
|
| Sit in the open sunlight
|
| This is my street, and I’m never gonna to leave it
|
| And I’m always gonna to stay here
|
| If I live to be ninety-nine
|
| Cause all the people I meet
|
| Seem to come from my street
|
| And I can’t get away
|
| Because it’s calling me, (come on home)
|
| Hear it calling me, (come on home)
|
| La-la-la-la
|
| Oh, my autumn Armagnac
|
| Yes, yes, yes, it’s my autumn almanac
|
| La-la-la-la
|
| Oh, my autumn almanac
|
| Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes
|
| Bop-bop-bopm-bop-bop, whoa!
|
| Bop-bop-bopm-bop-bop, whoa! |