| I walk along the Strand
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| to catch the late ride home.
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| Shuttle through the evening gloom
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| knowing I forgot to phone.
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| The back door’s open.
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| There’s a chill blowing in.
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| Take your warm hands off me.
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| Let the night begin.
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| Shush your mouth.
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| Listen to me.
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| I won’t say nothing ---
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| just let me be your
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| toad in the hole.
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| Kicking through the wet leaves lying
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| all along the Station Road.
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| Past tired graffitti wailing,
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| raw emotion to unload.
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| There’s coal in the fireplace
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| and money in the bank too.
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| Deep-pile carpets, tinsel wallpaper.
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| Still got the back room to do.
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| Don’t be late.
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| Got a day’s work behind me.
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| Feel a little devastated
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| but my nights are assigned to you.
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| Toad in the hole.
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| No tom-cat creeping, now
|
| could ever be so bold
|
| to hang around our place tonight
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| when I come in from the cold.
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| There’s a straight-six in the garage
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| and some fine wine to cool.
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| Labour-savers in the kitchen,
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| room in the garden for a pool.
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| Shush your mouth.
|
| Let imagination run
|
| here in bed-sit heaven
|
| where all the best wishing’s done
|
| to warm toad in the hole. |