Cold, grey city
I turn left down the avenue don't know what I'm heading into
If I get caught between the moon and the emerald city
Please sir get me to a tailor there'll I be cool.

And if I see a chance to leave it
Bury me on Hampstead Heath
Or scatter me round Stepney Green
But please don't take me to New Orleans
We could be all these things and more

And I know we belong in the city
But every time I come back feels like a face slap tears in my eyes
I'd like to seek advice in the arms of strangers
I'd like to read some newsprint that isn't all lies

And if I see it a chance to leave it
Bury me on Hampstead Heath
Or scatter me round Stepney Green
But please don't take me to New Orleans
We could be all these things and more
We could be all these things, all these things and more