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2:17
Words
Verse 1
Fergus, you are eleven and you own a small recorder
And you point it at everything, including me, without asking
You've got the hoover, the letterbox, a bee and the boiler
Three hundred and forty files and not one of them named
So this year you're not getting a card and you're not getting socks
You're getting your own noises handed back to you in order
Pre-Chorus
Everything you can hear in this was already yours
I only put it in a shape and made your cousins shout
Chorus
Happy birthday, Fergus, from the whole racket of us
That's the fridge, that's the gate, that's Maeve doing a duck
There is not one proper instrument in this entire song
Which is precisely how you'd want it, so eleven, off you go
Verse 2
You told me sound is only air being pushed about
And then you pushed some air about for forty minutes straight
You recorded Grandad snoring and you played it at the table
And he laughed so hard at himself he had to put his fork down
Ivy says you're annoying. Otis says you're a genius
They are both correct and you should carry on regardless
Sound Library
Gate. Kettle. Bee. Boiler. Gate
Duck. Duck. Hoover. Duck
Somebody's dog. Somebody's dog. Us
Chorus
Happy birthday, Fergus, from the whole racket of us
That's the fridge, that's the gate, that's Maeve doing a duck
There is not one proper instrument in this entire song
Which is precisely how you'd want it, so eleven, off you go
Bridge
One day somebody will tell you to be quiet and they'll mean it
They'll say there is a proper way to make a proper song
You will politely nod at them and then ignore it completely
Because you're the one with the files and you're the one with a plan
Outro
That's the fridge. That's the gate
That's eleven whole years of you
Press record, Fergus. Go on
Made with Neva · lyrics and music generated by AI