| D | Em | F#m | G | |
| So | briety | breeds sin | cerity, |
| D | Em | F#m | G | |
| And | Lydia | Pond she is my | gravity |
| D | Em | F#m | G | |
| I don't know | how she | felt when she | took that E, |
| A | |
| But in the | morning she shaking, she was twitching, she was jerking. |
| On June the 5th she moved to Paris, |
| She could not stand the state of British politics, |
| And I just can't convince her that I'm socialist, |
| And every night I pray for mail in the morning. |
| Chorus: |
| D | A | D | A | |
| Sweet Lydia | Pond is | doing it for | me, |
| D | A | Em | F#m | G | A | |
| And | I want to | sing a | hymn | for | the | postal service. |
| Sinful and proud since I stopped sleeping around, |
| I am so faithful now to Lydia's handwriting, |
| Mid 8: |
| G | |
| That | makes me guess the circumstances under which she wrote it, |
| D | |
| Why she used the f-word when she never, ever spoke it, |
| Em | |
| She | pasted on a passport photo of herself in pigtails, |
| A | |
| And u | nderneath she'd written, "Did my touch make you less lonely?" |
| Oh she promised me that we'd be creasing sheets, |
| And that our bodies would be bruising, wrestling underneath, |
| And I wanted to ask her how she cut her teeth, |
| And why she let time slip through her skinny, skinny fingers. |
| Chorus x2, Mid 8, repeat last line. |