English Morning

It was a hot day in the city.
Dusty June without a breeze, and my thoughts were drifting home again,
across the eastern seas.
And I dreamed of all we spoke of, on that cloudy airport day.
A week or more to go and jest three thousand miles away.
And there’s an English morning calling me back home.
An English morning calling me back home again.
From you up to Boston, an American flight today.
And a hostess asks your cocktail choice to pass the time away.
So I sit with a pen and paper, try to write my feelings down.
But I just can’t seem to say how much I miss you being 'round.
And there’s an English morning calling me back home.
English morning calling me back home again.
Well, I miss your conversation.
Yes, I miss you very much.
But I recall that most of all I miss your midnight touch.
For the night is plagued with phantoms.
Outside a siren cries.
And the figures on my T.
V screen dance for unseeing eyes.
And there’s an English morning calling me back home.
English morning calling me back home again.