Pleasure - Stories | Текст песни

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• Pleasure
• Stories

Monday arrived exactly when she said she would.
Sent a wide-eyed sun to find some signs of life inside my bed.
Tuesday's on fire.
Pulled up the socks and watched the clock,
And swore that she would never follow suit.

I used to chase the hours.
Hour upon hour
Craving merit, craving credit.
Wishing I was only you...

But suddenly I'm not so easily led.
Let the winds blow right over your head.
I'm in the mood for stories.
So let the days grow old.

Certainly I'm not so easily led.
Let the winds blow right over your head.
I'm in the mood for stories.
Let the days grow old.

I'm a little English boy, Harry is my name.
In cold or sunny weather my work is still the same.
I'm civil and obliging to the passers-by,
Who hurry to be cozy home, this is what I cry.

Wednesday's just an open book.
But Thursday presses Friday,
Presses Saturday's pernicious lies.

Certainly I'm not so easily led.
Let the winds blow right over your head.
I'm in the mood for stories.
Let the days grow old.

Sunday's child knew everything I hoped to know.
Measures so unhurried,
When others run about, kept moving on.

Hour upon hour,
Craving merit, craving credit.
Wishing I was only you.

Hour upon hour,
Craving merit, craving credit.
Wishing I was only new.

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