<< Lonesome For A Place I Know >>
--- Everything But The Girl
So here we we in Italy, with a sun hat and a dictionary. The air is warm,
the sky is bright, your arms are brown, you're sleeping well at night, so
why does England call? The hedgerows and the townhalls. After all. there'll
soon be nothing left at all.
If we were born outside of place and time, to make our choice, well this
would be mine - to live and die under a sun that shines. But something
pulls, something I can't define tells me England calls, whatever she's done
wrong. Always calls, "This is where you belong." And I'm lonesome for a
place I know.
Oh but Florence you tempt to stay, amidst your hills to while my years away.
But your roots in soil lie, mine in paving stone and I hate what it's
become, but in my bones I'm lonesome for a place I know. Why does England
call?