Movers sulk like gravediggers, while you hug at the door.
Starting 1st May, no bus will go here anymore.
Pack your sun.
Freeze your sun, it'll stay longer.
Lock your sun, keep it stashed in an urnful of summer.
Locked away with her hair in a memory rack.
It was one Nick Cave album and three Coens films back.
A bottled look at the sun through the shimmering potion.
Some want a private beach, you - your own private ocean.
And someday we'll see the reversal of trends.
Cities named after movies and streets after bands.
And you'll read your Erasmus on park lawns again.
Barefoot, tattoos out, nimbed by sun, but til then - Pack your sun.
Hide your sun, or they'll take it away.
Lock it safe in an urnful of summer.
Pack your sun.
Pocket your sun, or they'll take it as well.
Keep it well in an urn.