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Where the Ferns can Grow

Acoustic, Jazz, City Pop. With a banjo in there somewhere! Light, easy listening. Lyrics: The fire escape is cold and grey, The city light begins to sway. But moss is turning green on steel, A quiet pulse that I can feel. The traffic sounds like rushing rain, To wash away the day-time stain. I’m sitting on the wooden floor, don’t need the city anymore. Electric moss on concrete walls, A forest where the moonlight falls. A wooden heart, a neon glow, The only place for us to go. The rhythm of a different choice, The echo of a hidden voice. We’re staying where the ferns can grow, Watching all the traffic flow. The radio is playing blue, I pour a cup of tea for two. The steam is rising in the air, I find a ghost of someone there. The power lines begin to hum, I wait for evening time to come. Dirt beneath my fingernails, While all the city color pales. The grid is bright, The wood is old. The silver light, The night foretold. Electric moss on concrete walls, A forest where the moonlight falls. A wooden heart, a neon glow, The only place for us to go. Watching traffic flow... The morning gold... Just staying here...