We both deserve better, But we’re never gonna find it – I know that we’ve settled, But I kinda just don’t mind it. I know we’re on the slide, But we’re sliding not so fast – It’s been a longish ride, Neither bumpy nor a blast. So how it is that we just seem to last ?
I know I oughta leave you, I feel like I deceive you, I feel you feel it too. Yet once we’re at the top, it’s such a view !
I’m terrified to go, But I’m terrified to stay – Things are, I don’t know, kinda sorta okay. I’m never gonna gush, And I’m never gonna swoon – So really, what’s the rush ? I know that I will still be here in June.
Less roller, more coaster, Less helter, more skelter, Both tunnel and love, Both fallout and shelter.
We both deserve better, But we just don’t hate the norm. Why be a go-getter When the water is still warm ? I feel we oughta shake up, Into separated lives, We’re waiting for the break-up That never quite arrives. And round and round, our roundabout survives.
You know you oughta leave me, You think that you aggrieve me, I think I disagree – I’d rather stick it out than be set free.
I’m unconcerned to stay, But I’m nonchalant to go – Let’s wait another day, then, before the big heave-ho. And most times aren’t so rough, And you’re far the best I’ve known – I don’t love you enough, But I love you more than living life alone.
My love is like my writer’s block It sneaks up from behind, It twists me like a weathersock, It leaves me deaf and blind, My confidences sharply fade, My workings have resigned, As all at once, my serenades Have quite escaped my mind.
Love, like jazz, is something I’ve never braved, It’s never been in my bracket. Never been tempted, never been close-shaved – Whatever, I’m happy to lack it. But you demand my offbeat soul be saved, And freed from its long-sleeved jacket – Assuming me as crippled and enslaved, Or thinking I just can’t hack it. But I have all the fellowship I craved, Without it costing a packet – So love, like jazz, has passed me by unscathed, In all its faff and racket.
The onions always made you cry, In ev’ry fry-up, soup, and pie – But that’s what onions do, I guess, They leave all chefs in such a mess. And so you had to drop them out From roasted duck and sauteed trout – You didn’t trust, as master cook, They way they always made you look.
Instead, you turned to garlic, And gazed beyond shallots and springs – Your eyes no longer marked by onion rings. You tossed the cloves in thick, Undaunted by my teasing quips – “Is this to stop me kissing other lips ?” Until, at once, you were gone – You said it was to breathe fresh air, To peel back the layers of life and see what’s there. And yet, you linger on – It’s been three days and a dozen beers, Yet still I taste your garlic in my tears.
Has it been so long ? Has it really been so many years Since last we greeted one another ? Since we said goodbye in tears After it had all gone wrong…? Yeah, I guess it has been after all. Are we about to rediscover Why we never tried to call ?
I can’t believe it either… I guess they don’t make years like they used to, Back when we were foolish-young – Of course, I never thought I’d lose you… Never thought I’d win you, neither, Yet, back then, I guess I did, Until experience had stung, Reminding me I’m just a kid.
We had some fun, though, didn’t we…? It’s coming back – the better times, The silly, noisy better times, When life was there for living. We had a good run, you and me, Before the arguments and guilt, Before the milk was spilt, Before each second-guessed misgiving.
Has it been so long ? Has it been a lifetime since we spoke ? It all seemed so important, And so ruined once it broke. I guess we came out strong, We both have landed on all-fours. It’s good to see you, even sporting still That wayward smile of yours.
Now that Winter’s easing, And the Sun is breaking cover, Then what could be more pleasing Than to wake from hibernating with my lover ? And as the sap is rushing And the Spring is turning bold, Then what could be more crushing Than to hear she wants to clean-out with the old ? We’d clung to one-another, While the Winter held us in its thrall, I thought she was my lover, But I guess that April makes fools of us all.
Now with lambs in clover And the daylight on the rise, So she wants to be a rover And she wants to try the Springtime on for size. She slips out after equinox With all the world at play, By the changing of the clocks, Then I know the cruellest month’s not far away. With the first song of the skylark And the golden tulips growing tall, She’s off to find another mark – I guess that April makes fools of us all.
Where do all my socks go When a fresh set can’t be sourced ? My pairs may start out married, But they always end divorced – Woollen-millers, stocking-fillers, Full-of-holes or reinforced, Longs and shorts and blacks and creams – Like-and-like repel, it seems. Many lonely-socks are sulking Limp and curled-up on their tod – Unloved, unworn, and dresser-skulking, Each one well-and-truly odd.
Where do all my socks go ? Onto other people’s feet ? Too long in drawers they’ve tarried Now they’re keen to up-and-meet – They’re soc-hopping, garter-dropping, – Long-legged jeans keep them discreet. Sock it to ’em, just for kicks, The silk, bamboo and cotton-mix. Whenever mismatched-socks are strutting, Are they going on a date ? And when they’re balled-up, are they rutting, Knitting booties with their mate ?
Miss Haversham or Jilted John, With no clue what’s been going on – That’s me. When the hero comes bursting into the church To win back his one true love, Then I’m the one who’s stood at the altar. I’m the one who’s always left in the lurch, Who only exists to get the shove, Because my name is Chester or Walter.
(Hiring the organist, ballroom, and tails – The invites and rings and the horse-drawn chaise, Flying my folks in from New South Wales, For untaken photos and uneaten canapés.)
Forever Paris or Rosalind, Traded-in for the chisel-chinned – That’s me. The one who isn’t famous or pouty, I’m the beta who’s got no soul, The banker or techie or wonk who’s bland and nice. You’ll all have quite forgotten about me By the time the credits roll I’m just another shallow plot device.
(I won’t be getting out of here for hours – Shaking their hands, and arranging their lifts, And someone still has to clear out the flowers, And cancel the band, and return all the gifts.)