A coloured tube map in her hand,
Searching for a destination.
He got new keys cut by a man,
Who’d seen this kind of thing before.
And she walked out through an open door nto a new-found-land.
All her friends came to lend a hand.

A colour poster of Guernica,
and several items of well-worn furniture,
A spoon that’s only known two hands,
Are going to journey to this foreign land,
Because she’s leaving.

Red circles in the Evening Standard,
Obituaries so even-handed,
Tide turns and workers stranded,
She’s leaving.

Red Sky, Shepherd’s delight:
The microwave and its blinking light –
Telling him, he’s lost the fight.
Would you? Would you?

A boxed-up TV in the hall,
Wondering why it all went dark.
An evening dress from ‘92,
Wonders if it’s lost its spark.
The coat hanger with its steely question mark,
Asks if she’s leaving?

CDs of forgotten bands,
An unloved copy of Tennyson,
But the Lady of Shalott won’t lend a hand, Because she’s leaving.

Empty packets of Marlboro lights,
Postcards of Pre-Raphaelites,
But no one to lend a light.
Would you? Would you?

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro’ the room,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She’s Leaving.

And who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
There died the sound of royal cheer,

She’s leaving, leaving, leaving.
I can’t afford the grieving.
She’s leaving, leaving, leaving... tonight