Tekst:
Richard Thompson Across A Crowded Room

wind When will my sore heart ever mend I'm empty and cold, I'm empty and cold like a ruin The wind tears through me, the wind tears through me like a

blue number, little blue number Little blue number, little blue number Ice blue jacket, vent down the middle Shark-skin trimmings and all that jazz Real rabbit's foot on a

me my dignity Makes a dunce of me in mixed company No bygone can be a bygone She throws the spanner in, she puts the screws on In the middle of a kiss

when a farmer was ashamed If he never put his hand to a plough You can buy a lot of shame with your money He's riding in a limousine now Walk down, walk

handing her that same old line It's just straws in the wind this time When love has died, There's none starry-eyed No kiss, no tears, No farewell souvenirs Not even a