Wake up straight. Called out by the sun. On the first day of April. Out of bed. Lord it was a plane crash. But I’m sure that I was dreaming. TV on. Of course caffeine and signs. Of submission again. Another day. On this little island. Just a bell hangs on. Porridge done. I take my kid to school. It was the pound shop Woolworth’s. Under bridge. Where the subway sees the daytime. And the West Way flies by. Then on my bike. Down the Ladbroke Grove. To the forthcoming dramas. The studio. And a love of all sweet music. We just can’t let go. Let go… let go.. let go… let go.. let go. So meditate. On what we’ve all become. On a cold day in springtime. Civil War. Is what we all were born into. Raise your left hand right sing. Don’t capitulate. To the forces of the market place. They’re long departed. Consolidate. The love we’ve had together. On a cold day in springtime