Broad strokes brush the foxtail sky
Over London's crispy morn
There is no more content than I

Filing through the cluttered pile and
Out of dirt and dust we're born, as
Broad strokes brush the foxtail sky

There was a man who learnt to fly,
A bird through years of cage-bent scorn, but
There is no more content than I

Where in these blocks we hang to dry:
Some are battered, most are torn, watching
Broad strokes brush the foxtail sky

Every day I long to die
Naked in the coldness of the dawn, but
There is no more content than I

Wrapping round my neck, a tie,
Lost in dreams of fields of corn, bright
Broad strokes brush the foxtail sky
And there is no more content than I

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