Martin's notes: I wrote this in Toulouse on some never ending tour. I never really thought about home at the time, you don’t when you’re young; leaving your lady all alone for weeks on end while you tear around the world with your mates; but it only takes a phone call or the football results to get you thinking about home. This was one of those times.
Lyrics: If these cracked lips could talk to your ear, my pain would cease. If these sore eyes could see you just for a while. Take these lines and keep them somewhere, keep them close so I’ll always be near. If these tired hands could touch you, I could carry on somehow. If these worn ears could hear you laugh again. You’re always in my head. How can you say I’m dead? I’ll be home. I’m sorry, please believe it. I remember what you said, “a love needs to be fed”. Now I know what you mean.
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