I came in here, just to see his guilty face He's been dead twenty years but I sort of miss the chase
I've seen folk just like her, pop their noses round the door If this is where their husband was between 1 and 4
Nothing hits so definite, hits so hard When he's moved from Old White Hart and he's doing the Old Graveyard We're running a check. On the love we had taken away We're running a check. That death wasn't fortnight astray Nothing hits so definite (repeat)
The mask of sobriety for afternoons he'd save If he could fool me regularly he'd certainly fool his grave
I've seen those widows pray for the hunt that was taken away They pretend they've just popped by like they popped by yesterday
I came round here in case he left a slate No one settles up around here, like the widowed or the late We've seen folk like you settle bills or family feuds But no one's bought a drink for those that death excludes More from Beautiful South