I’ve waited bloody hours and still that dame
keeps changing clothes and putting on her face.
Whenever we go out it is the same
performance. I came out to give her space.
Her clothes are on the bed and on the floor--
she says she hasn’t anything to wear.
If she begins to try on any more
I’ll choke the stupid tart, I will, I swear!
It’s long past lunchtime. Oh my aching head!
I’ve got the strangest feeling, sort of light
and woozy. Can’t a hungry bloke get fed
without that rigmarole? I feel I might
pass out or float away, I need a drink.
That sheila’s pushed me to the flaming brink.
[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited August 11, 2004).]
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