Besedila: Frank Turner. Poetry Of The Deed. Faithful Son.

Meet me on the edges of this city, meet me where the underground runs out.
Bring a picnic blanket and your pity, a pen and paper, so I can write things down.
Mother, oh dear mother,
I wasn?t joking when I said that I plan to keep doing this until the day I?m dead.
And I?m not a mirror for you when you were young,
but I still remain your faithful only son.
Lately I?ve been feeling kind of fragile, lately I?ve been feeling all worn out.
What would any of us do if all the dreams we had came true?
What would there be left to dream about?
Father, oh dear father,
I?m not trying to reject the values that you held like winning cards up to your chest.
And I can?t just do the things you wished you?d done,
but I still remain your faithful only son.
The city seems so still, looking down from Highgate Hill.
There?s nothing left for us to say: you taught me everything I know.
You wouldn?t miss me if I stay, you?d never see me if I go.
This is no confession now, this is who I am.
You made me in your image so you have to understand that I did my best as told
and so have become your loving and your faithful only son