Bong, bong, bong, bong, 4pm in London
Big Ben calls out the beat and measure.
There's a symphony playing in the streets.
Everyone has his part, but no one's here to listen.
Royal sentry outside Buckingham and St. James.
Faces made of stone, gargoyles of the Queen.
Oblivious to the jeers of tourists outside the gate.
Steadfast in their task, staring straight ahead
from beneath bearskin caps.

Along Pall Mall, children playing in the alley
without any care at all, just a bat and a ball.
Passing Nelson's Column, and the lady on a bench
feeding pidgeons in Trafalgar Square.
Replaced by young hippie rebels
marching to the tune of their own beat.
Each thinking that he knows what's right.
'Hey, Hey, LBJ, how many kids you kill today?'
'Make love, not war.'

See there, a picnic on the bank of the Thames
boiled prawns, cheap wine and a diamond ring.
When they are together, the whole world disappears.
The stars in the sky, they are all aligned.
Like the Friesians that pull their carriage home,
with leather blinders on, blocking everything out.
Passing right by the old man in Hyde Park
counting the coins that grace the bottom of the jar.
'My darling, love, will you become my wife?'

Along Whitehall flow the masses heading home,
evening turns to morning and they come back again.
Every single day, its the same routine.
Around and around on London's Eye.
There's a symphony playing in the streets of London.
Each perfecting his own musical score,
all vying for promotion. Concertmaster, first chair.
Percussion, brass, strings and woodwind
they only hear themselves, but together a beautiful sound.