For some strange reason we decided to talk about s** It was a Wednesday at half past nine The conversation just seemed to wander there Besides we'd done prog two million times I met the teenage boy in you I never knew was there And caught a glimpse of festivals when you had longer hair We're stranded outside a Soho jazz club now Neither of us has a mobile phone The guy we need see is just inside the door But he might as well still be in Malmo We talk about our kids a bit and wish that we were them And hark back to our younger days again Somewhere in this leering city there beats a heart (I'm told) And Ian and I keep trying to find it on two very different roads It seems that no-one even sees us, the kids just seem so cold So please send your answers on a postcard... Are me and Ian old? Some sleazy guy just sidles up beside us and says: "Hello lads, you looking for someone for a bit of a good time?" He looks quite puzzled when I say "yeah... Krister Jonsson" 'Cos that's not what he had in mind And I feel just like a fool as we head into the tube But suddenly we're laughing all the way home