in liverpool on sunday,

no traffic on the avenue

the light is pale and thin like you

no sound, down in this part of town

except for the boy in the belfry,

he's crazy, he's throwing himself

down from the top of the tower

like an unchback in heaven

he is ringing the bells in the church

for the last half an hour

he sound's like he's missing something

or someone that he knows he can't have now

and if he isn't, i certainly am.

homesick for a clock,that told the same time

sometimes you made nosense to me

if you lie on the ground, in somebody's arms

you'll probably swallow some of their history

and the boy in the belfry he's crazy,he's throwing himself

down from the top of the tower,

like an unchback in heaven,he's ringing the bells in the church

for the last half an hour

he sound like he's missing something

or someone that he knows he can't have now

and if he isn't i certainly am.

i'll be the girl who sing for my supper

you'll be the monk whose forehead is high

he'll be the man who's already working

spreading a memory all trough the sky

in liverpool on sunday

no reasons to even remember you now

except for the boy in the belfry...