For some strange reason we decided to talk about sex
It was a Wednesday at half past nine
The conversation just seemed to wander there,
Besides we'd done prog two million times
I met the teenage boy in you I never knew was there,
And caught a glimpse of festivals when you had longer hair

We're stranded outside a Soho jazz club now
Neither of us has a mobile phone
The guy we need see is just inside the door
But he might as well still be in Malmo
We talk about our kids a bit and wish that we were them
And hark back to our younger days again

Somewhere in this leering city there beats a heart (I'm told)
And Ian and I keep trying to find it on two very different roads
It seems that no-one even sees us, the kids just seem so cold
So please send your answers on a postcard...
Are me and Ian old?

Some sleazy guy just sidles up beside us and says:
"Hello lads, you looking for someone for a bit of a good time?"
He looks quite puzzled when I say "yeah... Krister Jonsson"