Girls Don't Cry

I’m dancing to The Cure in just my pants

In over half the photos from the party.

You scan the album with disgust and tartly

Remark “I’m not sure what it was you drank,

You look the colour of a septic tank,

No, I’m not angry, just annoyed and partly

A little sad. I’m sick of this malarkey.

I want a girl who cares, likes holding hands…”

There’s no replying to that kind of nonsense;

I go downstairs and put the kettle on,

I pour the milk and feel those pangs of conscience,

Remorse and guilt, but then I settle on:

If Robert Smith don’t make you want to strip,

It’s time we ended this relationship.

AW