Sobriety breeds sincerity, and Lydia Pond she is my gravity. I
don’t know how she felt when she took that E, But in the morning
she shaking, she was twitching, she was jerking. On June the 5th
she moved to Paris, she could not stand the state of
Britishpolitics, And I just can’t convince her that I’m
socialist, And every night I pray for mail in the morning. Sweet
Lydia Pond is doing it for me, And I want to sing a hymn for the
postal service. Sinful and proud since I stopped sleeping
around, I am so faithful now to Lydia’s handwriting, That makes
me guess the circumstances under which she wrote it, Why she
used the f-word when she never, ever spoke it, She pasted on a
passport photo of herself in pigtails, And underneath she’d
written did my touch make you less lonely. Oh she promised me
that we’d be creasing sheets, And that our bodies would be
bruising, wrestling underneath, And I wanted to ask her how she
cut her teeth, And why she let time slip through her skinny,
skinny fingers
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