the tree lined streets and cobblestones
    of a far off place you can't call home
the windswept seas and sandy beach
    of a lost resort you'll never see

still the clocks tick on and the clouds roll by
    and your jealous of the birds that fly

the mill shuts down and the whistle blows
    and the children's kites have been let go
still the clocks tick on and the clouds roll by
    and your jealous of the birds that fly