Arbour

Rusting in a restless heat
This heavy curtained room's no place for me
The king's feet and his broken speech
Those were dark days in this field

Coffee pressed bread basket dreams
Hungry then and still it seems
Oh our backs pressed up red-brick thin
Wine red, chequered skin

Italy you're calling me
Italy you're calling me
Italy you're calling

Batter born it's blood in my grain
The sheets were warm where we'd lain
I clung to you in your bed
I was far-flung in my head

I was a free-wheeling racing child
Graffitti yard lock in
And the trees swallowed us where we sat
Left us stoned on the cobbled flat

Italy you're calling me
Italy you're calling me
Italy you're calling