A train ride to Tuesday. A platform far away. Scarlet shades of evening move clouds of grey. Awaking arriving. The dirty station where. He passes crowds of people who don't see him there. Here's a desert island room. For a man who's cast away. Stranded in this home from home. >From his family. Far away. Home.. Well this is it. This is it. Is this my heart. I miss you with all my heart. This is not. Is this not. My home. One shoe-lace cardboard suitcase. One passport from the Queen. One room for a light bulb. Where no-one's been. Sticks and stones my old bones. Not like nineteen fifty-four. Then the liked me fine. But not anymore. This empty room. Where he's marooned. With nothing left to say. But in the dark. He thinks of home far away. Home.. Well this is it. This is it. Is this my heart. I miss you with all my heart. This is not. Is this not. My home. I feel cold getting old. More than the climate's changed. Stranded on this island. The rate of exchange. Here's a desert island room. For a man who's cast-away. Today he will not be at work. There is no work anyway. How is it when you feel it. Do you wonder what gets you down. You're looking in the windows. When you walk this town.