If even David's hollowed out then gone There must be a kind of magic to the way they break you down Tired and overrun on the weekend you caught the sun There must be a kind of magic to the way they break you And listening to wood pigeons as you lay Tallying the sleeping hours left until the working day Groveling to forget some second to last regret Passing by the golden clock upon the golden balcony Has it all been a long con? Capital as a real God Bear it all as an old dog Capital as a real God Brighton in the bin strikes you were there Carrying your best belongings up and down the station stairs To meet on summer's green, oh, I know the flats you mean There must be a kind of magic to the way we stay true Has it all been a long con? Capital as a real God Bear it all as an old dog Capital as a real God