| Winter nineteen eighty one down at the station
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| Sleeping bag and sixty three pounds heading for waterloo station
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| Last night I shook my fathers hand told him I was leaving
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| But as the train goes past the docks my heart stays unbelieving
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| Sometimes I wish I was rich
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| Sometimes I wish that I was dead
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| Sometimes I wish that I was back on the train
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| Sometimes I wish that I was home again
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| But I’m strutting with the cats
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| Running with the dogs
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| Drinking down the poison to the bottom of the dregs
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| Looking for the secret of the little white bags
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| Sometimes I wish I was rich
|
| Sometimes I wish that I was dead
|
| Sometimes I wish that I was back on the train
|
| Sometimes I wish that I was home again
|
| But I’m strutting with the cats
|
| Running with the dogs
|
| Drinking down the poison to the bottom of the dregs
|
| Looking for the secret of the little white bags
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| All the friends I left behind die slowly on the dole
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| The factory on the big estate has swallowed my best friend whole
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| Now I’m living in a hammersmith squat watching an old TV
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| On the screen the days go by and never stop for me
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| Sometimes I wish I was rich
|
| Sometimes I wish that I was dead
|
| Sometimes I wish that I was back on the train
|
| Sometimes I wish that I was home again
|
| But I’m strutting with the cats
|
| Running with the dogs
|
| Drinking down the poison to the bottom of the dregs
|
| Looking for the secret of the little white bags |