With the neighbours at the breakfast, and the world is warm and bright;
And it doesn’t come upon you when you’re driving to the train;
What with wrastling with the luggage, you’ve no time to feel the pain,
But it grips you like a footpad, making home,
And you feel the sun will never drive the dark away again,
Making home.
Yes, you go in with the rest to see your married girl away;
There’s a mopy feeling round you, and you’ve nothing much to say;
So you crack a joke to mend things, but you make them worse instead.
Yet the loving words in hundreds are a-running through your head,