Almost Medieval

There's something in your soul that makes me feel so old

In fact I think I've died about six hundred times

There's less of me now and more of me then

I'm moving back to the age of men

Jump off the tarmac there's no stagecoach speed limit

Outside the office hangs the man on the gibbet

Soft lenses, grow to glasses

Small world, dimly seen through cataracts

Your programme, newspaper

So they say

Rumour spread by word of mouth

Jump onto the escalator

Press the button on the lift

Raise the dust on old stair carpets

Endless treads like waves of regret

Now it seems I'm going madder

Falling off this rotting ladder

Soft lenses, grow to glasses

Small world, dimly seen through cataracts

Jump onto the escalator

Press the button on the lift

Raise the dust on old stair carpets

Endless treads like waves of regret

Now it seems I'm going madder

Falling off this rotting ladder

Your program, newspaper

So they say

Rumour spread by word of mouth

Jump onto the escalator

Press the button on the lift

Raise the dust on old stair carpets

Endless treads like waves of regret

Now it seems I'm going madder

Falling through this rotting ladder

There's something in your soul that makes me feel so old

In fact I think I've died about six hundred times

There's less of me now and more of me then

I'm moving back to the age of men

Jump off the tarmac there's no stagecoach speed limit

Outside the office hangs the man on the gibbet

Jump off the tarmac there's no stagecoach speed limit

Outside the office swings the man on the gibbet