From the dew-soaked hedge creeps a crawly caterpillar, When the dawn begins to crack. It’s all part of my autumn almanac. Breeze blows leaves of a musty[mustard? ]-coloured yellow, So I sweep them in my sack. Yes, yes, yes, it’s my autumn almanac.
Friday evenings, people get together, Hiding from the weather. Tea and toasted, buttered currant buns Can’t compensate for lack of sun, Because the summer’s all gone.
La-la-la-la... Oh, my poor rheumatic back Yes, yes, yes, it’s my autumn almanac. La-la-la-la... Oh, my autumn almanac Yes, yes, yes, it’s my autumn almanac.
I like my football on a saturday, Roast beef on sundays, all right. I go to blackpool for my holidays, Sit in the open sunlight.
This is my street, and I’m never gonna to leave it, And I’m always gonna to stay here If I live to be ninety-nine, ’cause all the people I meet Seem to come from my street And I can’t get away, Because it’s calling me, (come on home) Hear it calling me, (come on home)
La-la-la-la... Oh, my autumn armagnac Yes, yes, yes, it’s my autumn almanac. La-la-la-la... Oh, my autumn almanac Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
Beck lyrics