The

cute

bom-

ber

ja-

cket

you've

had

since

sixth

form

A-

dorned

with

pat-

ches

of

pla-

ces

you've

been

Is

no-

thing

on

my

kha-

ki

coat

I

got

From

a

road-

side

when

I

was

six-

teen

My

boots

are

from

air-

ports

My

bac-

kpack's

from

friends

I'm

not

a

man

of

subs-

tance,

and

so

I'll

pre-

tend

To

be

a wan-

de-

rer,

won-

de-

ring

Lea-

ving

a-

sce-

tic

be-

lon-

gings

in

hos-

tels

and

res-

tau-

rant

bins

The

roads

are

my

home,

ho-

ri-

zon's

my

tar-

get

If

I

keep

on

mo-

ving,

ne-

ver

lose

sight

of

it

Trea-

ting

my

me-

mory

of

you

like

a

fire,

let

it

Burn

out,

don't

fight

it,

and try

to

move

on

It's

been

six-

ty

weeks

since

I

saw

Vi-

en-

na

A

ban-

dage

and

a

wide

smile

slapped

a-

cross

my

face

I'll

pick

up

my

hi-

king

boots

when

I

am

ready

And

I'll

put

down

my

roots

when

I'm

dead

The

dis-

tance

is

fu-

tile

Come

on,

don't

be

has-

ty

You'll

get

that

fee-

ling

deep

in-

side

your

bones

I'll

be

gone

then,

for

when

you

must

be

a-

lone