The cute bomber jacket you've had since sixth form

Adorned with patches of places you've been

Is nothing on my khaki coat I got

From a roadside when I was sixteen

My boots are from airports

My backpack's from france

I'm not a man of substance and so I'll pretend

To be a wanderer, wandering

Leaving ascetic belongings in hostels and restaurant bins.

Cut that bit out...

The roads are my home as horizon's my target

If I keep on moving, never lose sight of it

Treating my memory of you like a fire, let it

Burn out, don't fight it and try to move on

It's been sixty weeks since I saw vienna

A bandage and a wide smile slapped across my face

I'll pick up my hiking boots when I am ready

And I'll put down my roots when I'm dead.

The distance is futile

Come on, don't be hasty

You'll get that feeling deep inside your bones

I'll be gone then when you must be alone.