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The Finchley Waltz

from Only The Missile by Robin Grey

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Written whilst driving a small white van from London to Stafford, The Finchley Waltz is a song of reflection and lamenting lost innocence


I daydreamed for hours in the traffic jam
As the good guys and the bad guys stopped play.
On the radio politicians dutifully opine
Which liberties they’re taking away.

"Please sir, have you seen me innocence?
It was hanging up there on my door.
And sure it was looking quite tattered
But I had things I was keeping it for."

Guess I’ve seen too many movies
I believe in love at first sight.
My heart just slammed into a beautiful brick wall
She's keeping me up late at night.

Maybe I spent too much time dreaming
When I could have been joining in.
Pulling the hair of the pig-tailed girl
Was wrong but it wasn’t a sin.

I got lost on the way out of London
Listening to Leonard Cohen’s words.
Diverted by police chasing angry young men,
Who’ll die just so they get heard.

There’s something about this fine city
That will always bring a tear to my eye.
I guess I left most of my innocence here,
I can’t say I remember why.

I need to go buy me some new clothes;
The famous blue raincoats worn through.
A last thought as I finally hit open road,
London fades in the rear-view.

This song it’s just for you and I,
And any other dreamers around
Who know how it feels to be back on the road
Without knowing quite where they're bound.

Although I’ve seen too many movies,
I know now that you’re not the one.
'Cos something you said just got stuck in my head
For a moment and then it was gone.

The night was a womb to my headlights;
The horizon a mirror to my soul.
I sing to the silence and the darkness around
'Till I finally made my way home.


from Only The Missile, released March 1, 2008
Recorded at The Blue Door by Robin Grey




Robin Grey Sheffield, UK

“The poetic mastery of Grey’s folk tales is a joy to behold.”
Camden New Journal

“Robin Grey has a lovely fresh approach to the folk genre. A honeyed yet clear voice and his lyrics are arresting. A real treasure.”
The Londonist
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