Night falls on Gallifrey's. Neon smiles along the quay. King coconuts on corner. Lovers laughing, wild and free…
So Bobby lights a cigarette, tip of color, vintage gleam. He plays a little song but folds the past into a dream.
Street vendors call, pole, sample in the air, Old radios swing a melody of flame.
The crowd replies, palms clap like the tide. The island breathes the tune and every heart's alive.
Zee Bobby Zee Bop Bop. Zee Bobby Zee Bop Bop. Zee Bobby Zee Bop Bop.
A Prada, a Keithia, our land, our song to stay. Zee Bobby Zee Bop Bop.
Bent-toe to moon, tuk-tuks hum beneath the pier. Golden shoes on wooden floors, the band draws near.
Tambourine and brass, a cheeky trumpet wink. Ladies in polka skirts with ribbons at the brink.
Memory tastes like short-eats late at midnight fairs. Old lovers dancing cheek to cheek without a single care.
Every corner whispers names of youth and midnight prayers.
Zee Bobby Zee Bop Bop. Zee Bobby Zee Bop Bop. Zee Bobby Zee Bop Bop.
A Prada, a Keithia, sing loud till morning breaks. Zee Bobby Zee Bop Bop.
Whispered apeth, the apes are right. Double track leads softly, nasal vintage tones.
Harmonies tighten, group yells start to climb. Zee Bobby Zee Bop Bop. Zee Bobby Zee Bop Bop.
Grand Rada, hear me, Keithia. Golden land, a hymn to playa. Zee Bobby Zee Bop Bop.
Music by Ben Thede
