After Liza Radley by Paul Weller
While others despise her, Liza –
that’s short for Elizabeth – Radley,
I madly admire her, I see
her dance and I yearn for the
stance and the world of the girl
labelled wrong, who has grown with
a mind of her own and I long
not to be scared and to dare to do that with my hair.
I’d love to surprise her, Liza,
black sheep of the family Radley,
I’d gladly keep all of her secrets and see
her creeping round stumps and inhaling the lawns and her
waking as night turns to dawn and making me jump
with delight that I might have achieved through
believing that being alone isn’t the same as loneliness.
Why must they criticise her, Liza,
the quietly riotous Radley?
Listening to silence, they badly mistake
her uniqueness, she speaks less, but me
I can see the unflaunted haunting when
small minds in this town look down on you
from behind blinds and miss the depth and the distance you go.
You know that it’s them whom she cries for, Liza,
in the gloom of her room in house Radley,
so sadly lamenting their dreams that are spent and I
meant it when I said that I’d pledge
to defend you, befriend you and give myself
to the taste of your space, your enigma, no stigma, to
lift up my head and hold onto my hair alongside you
And ride away different together, and always be alone.