I've been reading patriotics turning my tongue, turning my tongue Such a sick thing, clutching the strings over my life, over my lie Bury me in the churchyard Severed at St Agatha's Between there and the homeland I do not know And the roses spoil my garden so I tread them like an infant child like an infant child, like an infant child like an infant child, like an ancient child Bury me in the churchyard Severed at St Agatha's Between there and the homeland I do not know Tell me the way to the heart or hearse me to St Agatha's and grimacing fathers let me go