Lyrics & Music: A.Β Smith

Each Sunday morning is the same as the one before,
But that’s something that means more and more,
To me, as the years turn into rituals,
To me, I like the peace, the peace that at home can bring.

The grey skies of London could tell a tale or two,
And maybe some are true,
While some, are fables from forgotten times,
While some, are dreams snatched from thin air.

But what are these stories? But travellers tales,
While the household lies sleeping, I’ll set my sails.
Tales of adventure, fortune and fame
Romance and heartache, or pride and of shame.

Time waits for no man, no man can turn back time,
But I’m guilty of the crime of trying,
To hold, on to days so long gone now,
To hold, on to live that has now flown.

Each Sunday morning’s the same as the one before …