Philip Oakey - Almost Medieval lyrics

There's something in your soul that makes me feel so old In fact I think I've died about six hundred times There's less of me now and more of me then I'm moving back to the age of men Jump off the tarmac there's no stagecoach speed limit Outside the office hangs the man on the gibbet Soft lenses, grow to gla**es Small world, dimly seen through cataracts Your program, newspaper So they say Rumour spread by word of mouth, jump onto the escalator Press the bu*ton on the lift, raise the dust on old stair carpets Endless treads like waves of regret Now it seems I'm going madder Falling off this rotting ladder Soft lenses, grow to gla**es Small world, dimly seen through cataracts Jump onto the escalator Press the bu*ton on the lift Raise the dust on old stair carpets Endless treads like waves of regret Now it seems I'm going madder Falling off this rotting ladder Your program, newspaper So they say Rumour spread by word of mouth Jump onto the escalator Press the bu*ton on the lift Raise the dust on old stair carpets Endless treads like waves of regret Now it seems I'm going madder Falling through this rotting ladder There's something in your soul that makes me feel so old In fact I think I've died about six hundred times There's less of me now and more of me then I'm moving back to the age of men Jump off the tarmac there's no stagecoach speed limit Outside the office hangs the man on the gibbet Jump off the tarmac there's no stagecoach speed limit Outside the office swings the man on the gibbet