And I stóp the phóne, you will néver cáll.

It is móre a cáse when you cáll me swéetheart

and the áutumn wínd is in the háwthorn bóugh

and the úpstairs lánding is líke a désert

and you’re óut late níghts and I knów somehów

it is móre a cáse that thóse are just wórds

and I’m táking on wínter and you’re góing abróad

and it’s nót in my náture, it would bé absúrd,

to do múch about lífe but to stáy and get bóred.

It is móre a cáse when you’re ín the sun máybe

and you sénd those póstcards from the sún and the séa

that you’re nót searching ín- to yoursélf, báby,

but you’re lóoking óutward and awáy from mé.

It is móre a cáse that those fóreign wárs

And áll those thóusands of réfugées

have cóme in my héad through an ópen dóor

and they dón’t like the wéather and I háve to agrée.

It is móre a cáse when I trý to éat

that my áppetite’s sláughtered by lóveless íce

and my mémories shíver upon frózen féet

and the péace is óver and the dáys are not níce.

It is móre a cáse that the wórld has splít

and the hálf I’m ín is where the kísses líed

and the péople in my héad just stáy and sít

and we cróuch round a fíre where the áshes have díed.

It was móre a cáse that the wéather had túrned

when you cálled me swéetheart and tóld those líes

and the úpstairs lánding was whére I léarned

you would stáy out níghts and I’d bétter get wíse:

it was móre a cáse that thóse were just wórds

and the wínter was cóming, you were góing abróad

and it wásn’t in my náture, it would’ve béen absúrd,

so I stópped the phóne cos you’d néver have cálled

and I stópped the damned phóne, you would néver have cálled.

Alan Marshfield