The caravan flipped over two three times. Went spinning down the carriageway. Breaking up into splinters. Wheels turning around in the dust at the foot of the hill. And all the old clothes the pots and pans and the photographs. The little things of those people's lives. Lay strewn across the road. Ch: We just want what we cannot have. We've driven so far we can never get back. Sitting in the all night cafe in a curl of smoke. Telling tales of the road. By the glow of a flickering lighter. We went stumbling forward through the corridor. Up the broken stairway to the top of the trail of shattered glass. Damp mattresses in the doorway an old abandoned take-away. Nothing much to tell us if and where you'd gone. By now you could be miles away. Ch: We just want what we cannot have. We've driven so far we can never get back. Sitting in the all night cafe in a curl of smoke. Telling tales of the road. And everyone just keeps moving on you turn around and find them gone. The lights go out one by one the prodigal son is not coming home. Down at the Ferrybridge junction. Beneath the cooling towers a man stood hitching a ride. And in the long grass at the side of the road his son was laid asleep. He said - nothing's left to keep us in the city where we come from. Take us far away from here - looking for work and the wishing-well. This afternoon the sunlight spilled shadows across the golden hills. They searched us at the border but they're not looking for what we're hiding. They're not looking for what we're hiding. Ch: We just want what we cannot have. We've driven so far we can never get back. Sitting in the all night cafe in a curl of smoke.