The day I went to Primrose Hill,

I swallowed a large sleeping pill.

I slept for more than fifty weeks;

Awoke to cries and piercing shrieks

From folks who dripped cold-sweated dread,

Believing that I lay stone dead.

 

But I was very much alive,

And was determined to survive;

I locked myself away from light,

Spent twenty years in endless night.

And on the day I ventured out,

There was, this time, no one about.

 

So I departed Primrose Hill;

The streets were silent, air was still.

I came across a drunken tramp,

Who, lit up by a swinging lamp,

Proposed that I should sit with him

And cater for his every whim.

 

I told him that it was too late

To alter his pathetic state;

And I pressed on, and spied again

My world of freedom, joy and pain.

The sun had gone, the sky turned black;

But, just in time, I made it back.

 

Yet still I long for Primrose Hill;

I shall imagine it until

The day when I shall not awake,

Whatever issues are at stake.

Then, perched upon some mountain steep,

I shall dream of my days of sleep.

 

So fly the flag, so fly the flag,

For what remains of Primrose Hill;

Once I remembered it with fear

And wished that it was not so near.

Now I watch from my windowsill,

The sunrise over Primrose Hill.