Now that I know how to do it right is will re-type it.

Portobello Road
by Stevens and Fowley

Getting hung up all day on smiles
Walking down Portobello Road for miles,
Greeting strangers in Indian boots, yellow ties and old brown suits,
Growing old is my only danger.

Cookoo clocks, and plastic socks,
Lampshades of old, antique leather,
Nothing is weird, not even a beard,
Are the boots made out of feathers?

I keep walkin' miles, 'til I feel the room beneath my feet,
Or the hawkin' eyes of an old stuffed bull across the street.

Nothings the same 'til you see it again,
It will be broken down to litter,
Even the clothes, everyone knows,
That the dress will never fit her.

That is much better, isn't it?

Blessings
Reta