When I grow up I want to be an engine driver.
I’ll build up my own head of steam, 25 horsepower.
Old hands, new power,
More miles per hour
Strange light in the ancient mills.
New sights, old eyes,
Giant leaps under small skies
A sense of death in the hills.
But when I pull off, I don’t want to follow timetables or tracks.
I will cut new paths through topsoil and tarmac.
Old hands, new power,
More miles per hour
Strange light in the ancient mills.
New sights, old eyes,
Giant leaps under small skies
A sense of death in the hills.
The only thing that I will leave behind
Is a simple trail, two stark parallel lines
That cut their way away across the land,
Which our children will preserve but won’t understand.
