Up here on floor four, I can hear the rain against the door,
Against a dewy window, beating off the pane,
I can hear the rain acoming, hear it once again.
It blows with a wind, not a gentle air,
Whistling over rooftops, gutters and stairs.
So when you look out on a cold damp night,
With a brisk breeze drumming to the beat of the moonlight,
You’ll notice the storm breaking, you’ll see the clouds fade,
It will paint quite the picture as the dawn breaks.
And I’ll be thinking of you in a land far away, wishing you were here, here to stay.