I got a letter in a dream last night,
Stamped in red with a Liverpool light.
The postmark read:"Don’t drift too far,"
Signed in clouds near the old red car.
Penny Lane is calling, through the rain and bloom,
Through the echo of a milkman’s tune.
Where the world turned slow and the sky wore grey,
Penny Lane is calling me home today.
There’s a bench by the barber’s, still worn and wide,
Where I kissed her once and she nearly cried.
The record shop’s gone, but I still hear sound,
Of barefoot summers on cobbled ground.
Penny Lane is calling, like a whispered song,
Through the brass band dreams that play all wrong.
In a painted sky, where we used to sway,
Penny Lane is calling me home today.
We chased our youth down the avenue,
With pockets of rhyme and worn-out shoes.
Though cities grow tall, and lovers fade,
Some streets never quite let go of your name.
Penny Lane is calling, soft and sweet,
In the shadows where old songs meet.
And I’ll follow that tune, come what may —
Penny Lane is calling me home today.
“La-da-da… Penny Lane is callin’ me…”
La-da-da… Penny Lane… is calling…