Flytipping

We'll play on the road
Flytipping, careful as you go
And we'll watch as the lorries
Transport their precious loads.

With a bag in our hands
Flytipping, me and my patient man
Just by the hard shoulder
This few who've understood.

What is my name, what is yours?
Do we own these things, what has it all been for?
Flytipping on the road of course.

What is yours and what is us?
Do we fool ourselves with all those pretty words?
Flytipping on the road with her.

And I'll take you to the Fir trees
As the paper drifts like falling snow.

Under the trees
Two hunters looking for ivory
Discard their possessions, cast them to the breeze.

'Cause the worms in the ground
And the crows as they circle round
Don't need these things to cling to
For a homestead playground.

What is my name, what is yours?
Do we own these things, what has it all been for?
Flytipping on the road of course.

Shiny things that turn into rust
So we show ourselves with all this pretty stuff
Flytipping feels like just enough.

And I'll take you to the verges
By the nettles, by the roundabout
And I'll pick you wild roses
In the tunnels like the underpass.