This frosted grass has beauty debonair

I wonder if the house is very far.
I’m happy not to map read; I sit back
In my self, I’m cosy in this car

The motorway is salted, frost to clear.
In the fields, looks like they’ve emptied sacks.
The cars spin round; so merry, like a fair.

I like the softened meadows’ silver stare
M25, I thought I’d not be going back
In my dream, I’m moving but to where?

This frosted grass has beauty debonair
Once stubble used to burn and make skies black
Crossing Essex, flames would fill the air.

The dear child sits behind me, tra la la!
I like his magic; how his marbles clack.
He likes to hear me humming, fah la la

Oh, this man drives well in the fierce sun glare.
He never swears nor shouts; he brings good luck
The sun lies boldly on long branches bare.

I feel relaxed, enjoy the spacious car.
A little voice asks, Daddy is it far?