Here we are then, here we are Notes from a suicide And he will never ever be The greatest living Englishman It's such a melancholy blue Or a grey of no significance Plastic coated surfaces A space to place his suitcase As he's bussed from A to B But it's such a melancholy blue The curtains round the bed are drawn Broadcast voices from the ward The humming of machines are heard But there are distances between Yes, there are distances between His aspirations visited him nightly And amounted to so little Too much self in his writing Now he will never ever be The greatest living Englishman The engine shifts into second gear They're all aboard accounted for It's a journey he must make alone The black sheep boy is leaving home It's been rehearsed a thousand times or more He's well prepared of that he's sure But still it's such a melancholy blue He's erased a page of history Much as he'd intended to He wouldn't speak or show you he was happy Though you'd meet him with your eyes There was a wall that always stood between you He'd shut himself outside And the love that he engendered Would never be enough For him to feel alive Warm and tender He'd shut himself outside Not a fake nor a sham But dug in deep and fighting The world could not embrace a man With so much self in his writing Well he was never gonna be The greatest living Englishman He had ideas above his station Minor virtues go unmentioned Little England you fit like a straightjacket Hemmed by the genius of others He said "to conquer the world is not to leave a trace Remove even the shadow of the memory of your face" A grey of no significance