Wickerman Pulp

Just behind the station, before you reach the traffic island
A river runs through a concrete channel
I took you there once; I think it was after the Leadmill
The water was dirty and it smelt of industrialisation
Little mesters coughing their lungs up
And globules the colour of tomato ketchup

But it flows, yeah, it flows

Underneath the city through dirty brickwork conduits
Connecting white witches on the Moor
With pre-raphaelites down in Broomhall
Beneath the old Trebor factory
That burnt down in the early seventies
Leaving an antiquated sweet-shop smell
And caverns of nougat and caramel

Nougat
Yeah, nougat and caramel

And the river flows on
Yeah, the river flows on
Beneath pudgy fifteen-year olds addicted to coffee whitener
Courting couples naked on Northern Upholstery
And pensioners gathering dust like bowls of plastic tulips
And it finally comes above ground again at Forge Dam
The place where we first met