The Cyclist

I am just a cyclist and my hands are always cold
I have squandered my subsistence
On a two-wheeled heap of garbage, such are auctions
Just like the rest, where a man bids what he can't afford
And he seldom gets the best

When I left my school and my family I was no more than a boy
In the company of of freshers
On the platform of a railways station aiming high
Don't you know?  Seeking out the better quarters
Where the Magdalene students go
Looking for the places only they would know

Lie la lie.  Lie la la la la la lie. Lie la lie.
Lie la la la la la lie la la la la lie.

Spending only student grant cheques I come looking for some digs
But I get no offers
Just an invite to the station down at Parkside
I do declare there were times when I was naughty and I spent the night down there

Now I'm laying out my rowing clothes and wishing I was gone, going home
Where the Girton Boat Club ladies are not bleeding me
Leading me, far up north

By The Backs there flows a river and a sewer by its trade
And it carries the remainders
Of every fool that punted down, and slipped in as he cried out
In his anger and his shame: "I am drowning I am downing"
But the punt pole still remains

Lie la lie.

Lie la lie.  Lie la la la la la lie. Lie la lie.
Lie la la la la la lie la la la la lie.

Lie la lie.  Lie la la la la la lie. Lie la lie.
Lie la la la la la lie la la la la lie.