There was a wayward lad
Stepped out one morning
The ground to be his bed
The sky his awning
Neon, neon, neon
A blue neon lamp in a midnight country field
Cows surround so you lean on, lean on
So much your hugs become hold ons
Oh, these three worn words
Oh, that we whisper
Like the rubbing hands
Of tourists in Verona
I just want to love you in my own language
Well, that smell of sex
Good like burning wood
The wayward lad lay claim
To two thirsty girls from Hornsea
Who left a note when dawn came:
"Girls from the pool say 'Hi'
The road erodes at five feet per year
Along England's east coast line
Was this your first time?
Love is just a button we pressed
Last night by the camp fire"
Oh, these three worn words
Oh, that we whisper
Like the rubbing hands
Of tourists in Verona
I just want to love you in my own language