The gate latch metal slaps behind us
Creosote air, the wind in our hair, blowing
Carefully packed, rages intact
We are never, never going back

The long hill, heat spills on Tarmac
Burnt feet, sweat beads, souls aching
Come on now John, the job’s nearly done
And we are never, never going back

The chocolate melt, rung bells of summer
Plastic cheese pieces* ripen… sour
Tupperware smells at Johnny Blue's Well
And we are never, never going back

Wings whirr, sick stirs inside me
The tickled neck of black clegg** plugging me
Drawing my blood; oh Jesus, this sucks
Come on John, I think I'm going back home
Come on John, I think I’m going back home
Come on John, I think I’m going home.

* ‘Pieces’ is a Scottish expression for sandwiches.
** ‘Clegg’ is another name for horse-fly. They have a nasty bite.