I know where the summer goes   When you're having no fun   When you're under the thumb   I know where the summer dwells   If your underarm smells   And your kitchen looks like hell      I know where the summer goes   If you're scraping a pot, and your head is hot   Put your head down, put your thumbs up girl   With the smell of hot desk   And the glitter of your step   He was right, he's the upcoming guru of the city   No one told the city councillors      I know, you can tell me again   I've got my mobile phone   Full of silicon chips   No one likes a smart arse   But I've seen a pattern emerge   I will race you up the hill   Where the boy who made records out of postcard messages   And flowering cherries rain on kids like you      Look twice at the kid with the crimped   And overheated hair   They ran a book on his looks   Odds on was the noble pose and   The denim hard riff of the Irish Troubadour   But the boy came from nowhere to   Steal the hearts of lassies in the lavvies of the club tonight