 Tower bridge is closing, and all of Bermondsey's asleep.
The street light walks the waters, rising fast and dark and deep.
Well is your work of art so heavy that it will not let you live?
You'll be missed.
Soon there'll be flowers in the river, tears being shed.
You'll be missed.
You'll be missed.
See, life has blessed you with a gift, boy, that you've gone and thrown away.
And with it your whole future, and left behind your family.
Now throwing flowers in the river, prayers are being said
you are missed.
They're throwing flowers in the river where your body cold was found
you are missed.
Missed…
Now I sit down here at low tide.
And I wait for the peregrines
And Stephen, this is where I live now, and I have overcome my demons.
And I have grown out of that thinking that would not let me live or give.
I've throw my flowers in the river, the tears have been shed, you are missed.
And the poem reads, and I remember the day you told me
that the sun, the sun, the sun, the sun is often out.
Why do we know that the sun, the sun, the sun, oh, the sun is often out?
I wish I had known you better.
The sun, the sun, the sun, the sun is often out.
Was your work of art so heavy that it would not let you live?
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