My Finest Hour - The Sundays

And the world it shows me up

My clothes they show me up

I never knew this before

My finest hour that I’ve ever known

Was finding a pound on the underground

And my words came stumbling out

Then I went tumbling out

I’ve never been hit before

And the finest hour that I’ve ever known

Was finding a pound on the underground

And I’ll keep hoping you are the same as me

And I’ll send you letters and come to your house for tea

We are who we are, what do the others know?

But poetry is not for me

So show me the way to go home

And the words came stumbling out of my mouth

And then I went tumbling out…

But I’ll keep hoping you are the same as me

And I’ll send you letters and come to your house for tea

We are who we are what do the others know?

But poetry is not for me so show me the way to go

Oh, I’m going home

But I’ll keep hoping you are the only one

Yes and I’ll send you letters, wouldn’t it be such fun?

We are who we are whatever the others say

But poetry is not for me

And much as I’d like to stay

Oh, I just want to go home

You’re, you’re, you’re too young

Should’ve been you, you’re, you’re too young

It should’ve been you too, you’re too, you’re too young

It should’ve been you you you’re too young

You should’ve been safer, saner

Bribed the judge and then sat down

Ooh you’re, you’re, you’re too young