By the coffee table
You wait
Blue in your eyes
A lock on your gate
In the summer you smile
In the winter you cry
He said
"maybe we'll give England a try"

Your mother, she called it a seasoned depression
Your father can't cry from years of repression
Your youngest of brothers thinks it shouldn't matter
Your friends are inclined to agree with the latter...

But that was months ago
Though he sometimes writes
And in your replies
You would give him your nights
You'd surrender your days
And relinquish control
You'd fill any form
And pay every toll

Your mother, she called it a seasoned depression
Your father can't cry from years of repression
Your youngest of brothers thinks it shouldn't matter
Your friends are inclined to agree with the latter...

Back at the cafe you wait
The table
We'll sit and tell stories
As long as we're able
I'll cry, then you'll cry
We'll all cry together
Sad for the distance
Sad for the weather...