Miles northwest of Piccadilly Circus.

We have a lifetime to cry, so don't start now.

Play the catcher in the rye, before the wind starts to blow

your cover far too wide.

Find a new one, seek just to hide.

The cops are coming, run with me.

Take my hand, we'll be free.

I'm the cancer, kill me quick.

But you can't catch me, your hands are too slick

with the grime of city streets,

performing incredible indelible feats

of flexibility,

but you still can't fucking catch me.