(Thomas)
In the summer all the old men, they sit on their front porches
While the women comb their hair, shell their peas
And wonder what they've missed
And the forlorn children scan the streets
For wayward dogs, with fading torches
It's no amazing sight, it's something that I miss
I still hear the trucks
As they crunch their gears going through the lanes
And curse all folk who get stuck in their way
And the roaring forklift starting up
At 7am of a weekday morning
How I cursed them then, now I see things another way
And if I see things through a hallowed gaze
Well is it such a crime?
When I ain't been to Brunswick for a long long time
There was a kind word you could get
From the man who ran the milk bar
And a rough one from the old bloke
Who lived across the road, and though
The footpaths stank with the refuse
Of overfed Alsatians
The air was rife with Tip Top Bread
The baker's morning load
And if I see things through a hallowed gaze
Well is it such a crime?
When I ain't been to Brunswick for a long long time
And there's a cottage I think of
Sometimes when I've been drinking
And in the bottom of my glass
I see a life I've missed
Of summer walks and well trained dogs
And plenty of time for thinking
So just don't bother asking why the hell I'm always pissed
But if I see things through a hallowed gaze
Well is it such a crime?
When I ain't been to Brunswick
No I ain't been to Brunswick
I ain't been nowhere near it for a long long time