Hate for the Island

Recall the time we straddled your window pane
And smoked the last of the weed that sent you insane
In a public loo in a borough of London that I won't mention
You phoned me in Minnesota, said you had a vital question
And as we smoked you feared your neighbours might see
We watched a fon rip out the contents of each
Bin-bag that we lined the road and then you turned to see me mouth,
"Those entrails are how I'll feel when you decide to leave me"

Now I've a whole lot of hate for the island
Since your friends buried you down there 6 feet deep beneath the sand
But at least I know we'll never be that far now from each other
Just a couple hundred feet either side of sea level
It's no lie that if the waters rose and drowned that place from coast to coast
You wouldn't see this smile leave my face for all eternity