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(difford/tilbrook) |
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I wrote her name on a bar mat |
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She had a peculiar bonnet, |
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But a youngish damsel figure |
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With her tongue tied to a trigger, |
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She seemed a total killer |
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Her face all filled with filler, |
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Her face a painting palette |
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I stomached all her habits, |
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Sipped her snow balls poshly like a judge |
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But left her lipstick traces on her mug. |
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We watched each other closely |
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She looks like bela lugosi, |
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She asked me for a ride home |
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I felt around for my comb, |
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And in the bar room mirror |
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I combed right through her figure, |
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She wiggled through the car park |
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Into the pit of my heart, |
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Sat herself beside me in my van |
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A ring on every finger of her hand. |
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She lived down by the river |
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A flat the council give her, |
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Wallpaper very scenic |
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Her outlook very beatnik, |
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We watched the close and weather |
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Then through the door he entered, |
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Short sleeves and arms of iron |
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And me with just my tie on, |
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She said the lodger's used to this by now |
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I'd handled all the bull but not the cow. |
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Behind her velvet sofa |
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I found myself back sober, |
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She kept an old acoustic |
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She never ever used it, |
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A gift for me with a capo |
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A six string with an f-hole, |
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We made the strangest couple |
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A laurel and hardy double, |
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I learnt to play her favourite country songs |
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With one or two chords always going wrong |
