She sorts out her hair at the washroom of preston services

Dries her hands under a notice that says

Have you seen this child?

And she nurses her tea for one hour in the cafeteria

Watching the truck drivers

blind their fried eggs with the cutlery

And English murder it's all over her face

Just waiting until the right time the wrong lay-by

There'll be a photograph

With a bad 1970's fringe and a look of uncertainty

Years later you'll know the name

but not where you know it from

And they've emptied the terraced row

with compulsory purchases

Reasoning that they'd make more

from the ground with the people gone

And so he shuffles the half a mile

to the nearest post office

When lads push into the queue

he pretends he's not noticed them

And English murder it's all over his face

A low enough cold snap a high enough gas bill

You'll skim the epitaphs

And you'll possibly notice his name

like somebody's you knew from school

There'll be an off the peg verse

where sad has been rhymed with dad

And the houses in which they've invested their city bonuses

Have increased the property prices

and therefore the homelessness

The scabby grey anti climb paint

and withdrawn amenities

In case socialising promotes anti social behaviour

And English murder it's all over the place

The bunches of flowers in pedestrian precincts

Your average sociopath at least kills

With a hammer or brick not with greed and incompetence

And after two or three years they'll express remorse