|
Think of you with pipe and slippers |
|
Think of her in bed |
|
Laying there just watching telly |
|
Think of me instead |
|
I'll never grow so old and flabby |
|
That could never be |
|
Don't marry her, fuck me |
|
And your love light shines like cardboard |
|
But your work shoes are glistening |
|
She's a Phd in 'I told you so' |
|
You've a knighthood in 'I'm not listening' |
|
She'll grab your sweaty bollocks |
|
And slowly raise her knee |
|
Don't marry her, fuck me |
|
And the Sunday sun shines down on San Francisco Bay |
|
And you realize you can't make it anyway |
|
You have to wash the car |
|
Take the kiddies to the park |
|
Don't marry her, fuck me |
|
Those lovely Sunday mornings |
|
With breakfast brought in bed |
|
Those blackbirds look like knitting needles |
|
Trying to peck your head |
|
Those birds will peck your soul out |
|
And throw away the key |
|
Don't marry her, fuck me |
|
And the kitchen's always tidy |
|
And the bathroom's always clean |
|
She's a diploma in 'just hiding things' |
|
You've a first in 'low esteem' |
|
When your socks smell of angels |
|
But your life smells of Brie |
|
Don't marry her, fuck me |
|
And the Sunday sun shines down on San Francisco Bay |
|
And you realize you can't make it anyway |
|
You have to wash the car |
|
Take the kiddies to the park |
|
Don't marry her, fuck me |
|
And the Sunday sun shines down on San Francisco Bay |
|
And you realize you can't make it anyway |
|
You have to wash the car |
|
Take the kiddies to the park |
|
Don't marry her, fuck me |
