Wintertime is coming, all the sky is grey. Summer birds aren't singing, since you went away. Since you've been gone, end of the season. Winter is here, close the plans. I get no kicks, walking down Savile Row. There's no more chicks left where the greengrass grows. And I know that winter is here, end of the season. My reason's gone, close the plans. I just cut flicks, in all the clubs I know. And all labour's in, I have no place to go. You're on a yacht, near an island in Greece. Though you often forget me not, I will keep waiting until your return. Shaw you are gone, end of the season. Winter will come, any day. Back in the scrub, on a wet afternoon. Down in the mud, dreaming of flowers and you. End of the season. End of the season.