Of larks, trains, windows, and brooks
The poet he writes it all down in his book
Won't meet your eye but he wants you to look
In Hull or hell he lies
In Hull or hell he lies

Lambs in the winter and swans in the spring
Children at play they're like
Birds on the wing
And the poet he writes that
The sun seems to swing
In Hull or hell he lies
In Hull or hell he lies

Away from the world and away from the page
Hidden in corners the gathering of age
Retreats to the wings where he
Once held the stage in Hull or hell he lies
In Hull or hell he lies

The dirt and the filth that
We don't get to see
That's eating his language away
This yellow-eyed nastiness hides from the
Light of the day

Resenting the everyday growing so old
Where winter once pictured as flowers in fold
Turned frosty and bitter and
Weathered and cold in Hull or hell he lies
In Hull or hell he lies
In Hull or hell he lies
In Hull or hell he lies
In Hull or hell he lies
In Hull or hell he lies
In Hull or hell he lies
In Hull or hell he lies

His housemaid she tried but the
Dirt grew so fast
The darkest of colours he nailed to the mast
Stuck in his ways like he's stuck in the past

Copyright: Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
Writer(s): ALLAN WHALLEY, JUDITH ABBOTT, LOUISE WATTS, NEIL FERGUSON