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