I know where the summer goes

When you're having no fun

When you're under the thumb

I know where the summer dwells

If your underarm smells

And your kitchen looks like hell



I know where the summer goes

If you're scraping a pot, and your head is hot

Put your head down, put your thumbs up girl

With the smell of hot desk

And the glitter of your step

He was right, he's the upcoming guru of the city

No one told the city councillors



I know, you can tell me again

I've got my mobile phone

Full of silicon chips

No one likes a smart arse

But I've seen a pattern emerge

I will race you up the hill

Where the boy who made records out of postcard messages

And flowering cherries rain on kids like you



Look twice at the kid with the crimped

And overheated hair

They ran a book on his looks

Odds on was the noble pose and

The denim hard riff of the Irish Troubadour

But the boy came from nowhere to

Steal the hearts of lassies in the lavvies of the club tonight