| I’ll tell you what you want to hear
|
| Tell me where I’d like to go
|
| Ask me where the Summer went
|
| That way maybe I don’t know
|
| And while my life’s not in a rut
|
| Every weekend I take flight
|
| Given that today’s the day
|
| Presumably tonight’s must be the night
|
| Accustomed though I am
|
| To crying in the rain
|
| What’s the point of counting sheep
|
| When by the time you get
|
| To ten or twelve you’re asleep
|
| You are my love you are my life
|
| It’s emblazoned on my chest
|
| Every time we have a row
|
| I just keep it covered with a vest
|
| You ask if I am anxious
|
| How this will pan out
|
| Let’s just say until it’s foiled
|
| Answer does I fear
|
| Lie nowhere near the soil
|
| And so the conversation
|
| With the flying plates begin
|
| You see a pattern now emerging
|
| On a plate shell fling
|
| It doesn’t matter where it goes
|
| As long as it goes fast
|
| You recognize your favourite
|
| China cup as it goes past
|
| And was the Meissen so enticingly
|
| That I had to leave
|
| Surely the fact it was a wedding present
|
| Would ensure
|
| It would remain secure
|
| Like to think within a year
|
| We’ll look back on this and laugh
|
| Only problem is it’s year
|
| One year on’s already what we’ve had
|
| Accustomed though I am
|
| To diamond-studded ears
|
| Which by the way on men
|
| As it’s just in one
|
| Look when hung
|
| Bent
|
| And so the conversation
|
| With the flying plates continues
|
| In the yellow corner
|
| Flexing all her muscular vim
|
| Throwing overhand or underhand
|
| It makes no odds
|
| Lovely bit of Royal Doulton
|
| Heading for ye Gods
|
| And in the midst of all this carnage
|
| Comes a sobering thought
|
| Most of what has been destroyed
|
| Can never be re-bought
|
| Such a shame now in the morning
|
| As the maid comes in
|
| On her morning stint
|
| Looking on in shock
|
| After taking stock
|
| Of what’s around her feet |