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.